Marlinspike Hall: eine Symphonie des Grauens
by los.kav
Summary: It's two days to Halloween. There's a fair in the garden; the archaeologist in the back field; the ghost-hunters are in the parlour and a vengeful vampire wandering the corridors of Marlinspike Hall, and he's not very fond of the wall paper. Can Tintin do anything to lay this spirit to rest? Featuring no vampires at all.
1. 1: The Grey Morning of Misery

**Disclaimer:** Tintin and Co belong to those chaps at Moulinsart. Is that how it's spelled? I don't know. Anyway, they're not mine. And the characters that are mine are pretty rubbish. Haha! Enjoy...

**Author's Ramble:** In the last You've Been Served story (which I can't top, by the way) there was a line about a ghost-hunting group holding a seance in Tintin's bedroom. This story grew from that. It was just too funny a concept not to be used. It had to be done. Many, many thanks to the wonderful **K-mee** (or **TheFrenchGal** as you may know her) for translating an increasingly strange series of phrases and old movie titles. Bless you, my friend: this is dedicated to you and every other person who reads my stories. Thanks for reading, everyone, and thanks for the kind words of encouragement and comments.

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**PART ONE: LES CONTES DE LA CRYPTE **

_29th of October_

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_**1: The Grey Morning of Misery**_

After it was all over, Tintin supposed that it had really all started on Monday morning at 7:30am. He was standing at the front door of Marlinspike Hall, still dressed in his pyjamas and shivering as he waited for Snowy to go to the toilet. The morning was dark and overcast, and a persistent rain had poured on Moulinsart and the surrounding countryside all weekend. A new week had bloomed, unlike the flowers, and the rain still didn't show any sign of abating. In fact, it was joined by a cold breeze and a certain damp chill that had invaded the air. He really wished he was wearing his slippers.

At the bottom of the stone steps that led up to the large front door, Snowy had finally cocked his leg and stared miserably up at his master. It was ignoble to pee outside at the best of times, but it rustled his jimmies to have to do it in the rain while someone watched. "Hurry up," Tintin hissed through chattering teeth. Then he heard a horn beep. It was loud, but distant: a truck or a lorry. Definitely nothing as small as a van. It was followed by a low rumbling.

Tintin trained his eyes on the driveway. It was flanked on either side by the leafy verge of the local forest, part of which ran through the Captain's land, making it hard to see who was coming until they had almost arrived, but luckily this truck was large enough that Tintin could see it – and recognise it with a frustrated groan – from a longer distance away.

_Rhyl's Bouncy Castles, _the truck read. Tintin knew it without seeing the writing (which was still hidden by the trees): the truck was a distinctive blend of rainbow colours. The Captain had used Rhyl's before, and they _were_ good – their giant inflatable footballs were a hoot, especially when you borrowed the Captain's ride-on lawnmower to play with them – but they were also noisy and never listened to what anyone said, and there was about to be a _lot_ of shouting and confusion.

The truck honked again as it turned and skidded to a halt outside the door. Two men jumped down from the cab and waved to Tintin. "Where do you want it, friend?"

"I don't know where it's going," Tintin called back. Snowy trotted over to the truck, sniffed it, decided it wasn't anything edible, and went back to Tintin. "Wait here, and I'll find out for you."

"We'll just start putting it up."

"Don't put it up! It's not staying here!"

"Fine, fine. You go and find out where it's going, and we'll just take it out."

"Don't take it out! Don't put it down on the ground, and don't – do _not – _start putting it up here! Ok?" Tintin looked from man to man. "Leave it where it is, and I'll go and find out where he wants it. Just… step inside out of the rain and _leave it where it is!" _

He hurried back upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, until he was outside the Captain's bedroom. He knocked once as an afterthought and pushed the door open. The Captain was still in bed, the blankets pulled up over his head. Snowy dashed passed Tintin and leaped onto the bed and started to dig, trying to reach the Captain. "Where do you want the bouncy castle?" Tintin asked urgently.

"Guh?" the Captain said. He pushed Snowy away and pulled his head out from underneath the covers. "Whu?"

"The bouncy castle. It's here. Where do you want it?"

"What?" The Captain stared at him, blinking, until he woke up a bit more. "The bouncy castle?"

"Yes, the bouncy castle. Where do you want it?"

"'snot coming till this afternoon."

"It's here now. I think they're putting it up."

"What!" The Captain sat up. "No! They're supposed to be here later, after the marquee's been put up! Tell 'em to stop what they're doing!"

"They won't listen to me!" Tintin protested. "You remember what happened last time?"

"Thundering typhoons! All them inflatable footballs in the grand hall! And you didn't help much either, with that ride-on lawnmower…"

"So what do you want to do?" Tintin demanded. "And don't blame all that on me: you were the one that fetched the lawnmower in the first place."

"Get down there and tell them to stop what they're doing," the Captain repeated firmly as he got out of bed. "I'll be down in a second. I don't care how you stall them, just stall them!"


	2. 2: The Bouncy Castle of Inflatable Doom

_**2: The Bouncy Castle of Inflatable Doom**_

The Captain made it downstairs in fifteen minutes. In that time, the bouncy castle was half-inflated and the caterers had arrived and were arguing with Nestor. Tintin had pulled on an old pair of running shoes and a coat with a hood, and was outside in the rain trying to stop the men from putting up the bouncy castle. The Captain wound his way through the arguing cooks, who were no doubt spoiling the broth, down the stairs, passed the excitable dog, to where the teenager stood beside the drooping, grey structure.

"Blistering barnacles, it's supposed to be a spooky castle," the Captain said, dismayed.

"It will be when we finish putting it up," one of the delivery men said, annoyed. Tintin had taken the hose out of the plug and was demanding they turn off the air.

"I don't want it put up!" the Captain cried. "It's not going here! Why would you think it's going here?" He gestured to the front of the stately manor. It went without saying that a giant inflatable castle would be slightly out of place here.

"How am I supposed to know?"

"I told you it wasn't going here," Tintin interrupted.

"Hush, you," the Captain said. "Go back inside and I'll sort this out. You'll catch your death out here. You two," he continued, turning back to the two delivery men, "take that thing down and put it back on your truck. It's going out in the back woods, down near the meadow."

"Where exactly?"

"I'll show you where, but it isn't going up yet. I need the marquee before it goes up. Can you excuse me? I have to go and sort the food."

"Captain, look," Tintin said, pointing towards the driveway. A short, white mini-bus was coming, led by a dark green car. "I think your students have arrived."

"Oh, for crying out loud, why does everything happen at once?" the Captain asked plaintively. "You two! Stop pumping that damned thing up! Take it _down!" _

"I'll go and deal with the caterers and Nestor," Tintin said, "and you deal with your professor, yes?"

"Fine." The Captain set his jaw and strode over to where the green car had parked. An older man in his middle fifties was getting out of the driver's seat. He wore a rain coat over a hooded jacket and khakis, and a pair of sturdy boots. On his head was a floppy-brimmed, ancient fedora hat. He was accompanied by a younger woman in her early forties who was dressed similarly, minus the hat.

"Captain Haddock?" the man asked.

"You must be Professor Fort," the Captain said, holding out his hands. "I'm just dealing with something here…"

Professor Fort looked over the Captain's shoulder, where the bouncy castle was slowly inflating again. "Yes, you look, er, busy."

The Captain turned and saw the castle going back up. "Oh for the love of…! _Take it down!" _he bawled. "Take the flaming thing down, by thunder, or I'll shove that hose up your ar" –

"Do you mind if we just go straight to the dig site?" Professor Fort asked loudly.

"What? Oh, no; no. Go ahead. You, er, you know where it is?" the Captain asked as he started jogging back to the bouncy castle.

"Yes, your butler sent us a detailed topographical map of the house and its grounds: I'm almost positive I know exactly where I'm going."

"Good stuff. Er, good luck, mate. Someone will be down to check on you in a while, I'm sure."

"Thank you, Captain, and thank you for your generosity."

"Don't mention it. _I said take it down! Down! Thundering typhoons, put it back in your truck and get it out of here!" _

Professor Fort shrugged at his companion. "There we are, my dear Doctor Lindy: permission to sally forth. Shall we go, my worthy friend?"

"Whatever you say, Professor." They got back into the car and reversed to where the mini-bus was idling at the end of the driveway. Slowly, both vehicles drove off around the side of the house, the bus following the car. Inside the hall, Tintin finally persuaded Nestor to allow the caterers into the kitchens. It was, he felt, shaping up to be a long day.


	3. 3: Breakfast of the Dead Annoyed

_**3: Breakfast of the Dead Annoyed**_

"…Yes, _yes, _I understand that, but I don't see what that has to do with - … … Ok… Ok… Right. So what you're telling me is that you only have one driver, and he's held up in… Oh, so there's two drivers? Right, so where is…?"

Tintin flicked through the morning newspaper, trying hard not to listen to the Captain's phone conversation. It was now 8:30am and the marquee still hadn't turned up. The bouncy castle had made it down to the woods, but in order to stop the men from trying to inflate it again they'd had to bring them in for breakfast. Nestor, who had insisted on feeding them down in the kitchen instead of in one of the dining rooms, wasn't pleased. Especially with the caterers working around him. The man was a great cook, but he couldn't handle big events like this on his own. That didn't stop him from getting the hump, however.

The Captain hung up his phone in disgust. "I can't take it," he declared. "I can't take it any more. She's boring me with a story about a salt truck jack-knifing in Brussels. I have no idea what that has to do with my marquee though."

"Was anybody hurt?" Tintin asked.

"I don't know. I don't think so. She didn't say, anyway. But my marquee is stuck behind that truck, which means it's stuck behind a load of salt." The Captain poured himself another cup of tea. "It's going to be a long day, lad."

"Tell me about it. When are we putting up the fairy lights?"

"After this. But before that, I want to go down to that dig site and make sure they're ok."

Professor Fort was a local fixture. He taught history in one of the universities in Brussels, and every year he took his first-year students to a hands-on dig. This year, the Captain had donated part of Marlinspike's land. The class had to do all the preliminary investigation, including using below-ground imaging; roping off the area, and establishing their very own archaeological site. The land the Captain had offered was rumoured to be the site of a mass plague grave, although Roman coins had also been found around the area.

It was just unhappy coincidence that this year the dig was taking place the same week as Halloween, and the Captain had also agreed to host a party on his land for a large children's charity. Part of the woods – the part on the opposite side of the land than the archaeological dig – was being transformed in to a spooky wonderland complete with fair-ground rides and a giant bouncy castle in the shape of Dracula's Castle. All proceeds were going straight to charity, and the Captain was paying for all the amusements himself. The grounds would be open to the public, and the Moulinsart schools were planning on bringing the local children along to support the event.

"So what's the story with the caterers?" the Captain took a quick slug of his coffee and fixed his gaze on Tintin.

"Easy enough: they're setting up the kitchen now, and bringing all their stuff in. The food will arrive tomorrow evening, and they'll start cooking it Wednesday morning. By the time the Halloween fair is open, the food will be set up and ready."

"Good. Did you write them a cheque?"

"Nope, I left that to you. And I couldn't find your cheque book."

"It's on my dresser, like always."

"No, it's not."

"Oh?" the Captain made a face. "That's strange. I'll have a look for it later. You finished?"

Tintin fed the end of his toast to Snowy, who was sitting patiently under the table. "I am now."

"Great. Let's head down to that dig site and check on 'em, before heading over to put up the fairy lights. Thundering typhoons, there's a sentence I never thought I'd have to say."

They exited the dining room and made their way to the front door, where Nestor finally accosted the Captain.

"Sir," the butler said, "I _must _talk to you" –

"Then do it later: I'm busy now."

"Sir _please! _Whatever am I supposed to do with" –

"Later, Nestor. Much, much later."


	4. 4: Grave Encounters

_**4: Grave Encounters**_

By the time Tintin and the Captain - accompanied by Snowy - had driven down to the dig site, the field was a hive of activity. They parked up alongside the bus and Professor Fort's old car, clambered over the stile, and crossed the field to where the students had roped off one corner. Two of the students, supervised by Doctor Lindy, were running a trundle wheel through the uneven, mucky grass, while two others went ahead of them flattening the stalks down. Professor Fort had asked that the field remain as 'natural' as possible, so the Captain hadn't had the gardener cut it for the last month.

Behind the roped-off area, Professor Fort stood up and waved to the Captain and Tintin, who changed course and headed for him. "Grand morning for it!" the professor called happily.

"You must be joking," the Captain replied, pulling the collar of his coat up around his neck. The rain had become lighter, and was now a persistent misty drizzle.

"Perfect conditions!" Professor Fort dodged around a small, rectangular hole and hopped over to them. The students were already starting to dig, and were elongating the rectangular hole. "Not every dig takes place in the Valley of the Kings, Captain. Most students of archaeology are surprised when they spend their lives standing in shit and mud up to their knees. I try to give my students as realistic an experience as possible, and sometimes you have a week in the pouring rain to investigate a site. Sometimes you find something, and sometimes you find nothing. It is the way of the world."

"Er, yeah. Ok. So you found the place, then?"

"We did: the directions were concise and explicit. That is to say," he added, "they were easy to read and even easier to follow."

"Good, good. Well, good luck, and if you need anything let me know."

"Of course, my dear man, although I rather think you've been more than accommodating and obliging already. I hesitate to intrude on your good graces once more, Captain, but, er…"

"Yes?"

"Perchance there is a library in the House that contains records? Pertaining to the past and the rich history of the area?"

"There is," Tintin answered. "Most of them are very old, though."

"Fear not, dear boy, my research team will not remove them from their dusty reliquary. Rather, they will attend to them in their place of rest. That is to say, they will go to the library and do their best to leave the books in the same condition as they find them."

"That sounds fair," Tintin replied. "Please, remind your students that some of the books are irreplaceable."

"I shall endeavour to impress upon them the importance of delicacy," Professor Fort said with a neat bow of his head.

"What?" the Captain asked.

"He's sending students up to the library to research the history of the land," Tintin translated, "and he'll tell them to be careful with the books."

"Oh right. Fair enough."

"And now I fear I have imposed upon your time for long enough," Professor Fort said.

"He's telling us to leave him alone. Very politely."

"Oh. Oh! Right, yeah. Er, good luck, ship-mate." The Captain shook Professor Fort's hand and they escaped before the man could launch into another soliloquy.

"It's like listening to Shakespeare," the Captain muttered as they hurried back to the car.

"Oh, it's not that bad," Tintin replied. "He's a bit stuffy, but I'm sure as an academic he can be excused."

"Excused, pardoned or postulated?" the Captain asked with a laugh. "Come on; let's get those fairy lights strung up."


	5. 5: Darkness Falls

_**5: Darkness Falls**_

The marquee arrived after lunch, and was quickly set up. Inside it was empty. The tables containing the food and the indoor games would be set up on Wednesday morning, before the party started. Outside, it was strung with fairy lights that wound their way through the trees and along the small path that ran through that part of the forest. Joke signposts led the way from the marquee to 'the graveyard': a large hollow in the woods where the Captain had already begun to set up some statues and fake gravestones. The mechanized decorations – a witch that would be hidden on the edge of the hollow, who cackled every few minutes; a statue of death that moved suddenly and unexpectedly; a skeleton that moved in a jerky dance; and an owl that flapped its wings and hooted – were too expensive to be left out in the rain for two nights, and would be put up on Wednesday morning too. The dodgem cars, miniature Ferris wheel and carousel would arrive the next day.

"Looks good," Tintin said. He stood, hands on hips, surveying their day's work.

"Hmm." The Captain paced up and down, examining it critically. He'd already changed it four times, so Tintin took him by the arm and tried to drag him away.

"It'll look better when everything is in it: you know that. Wait and see what it looks like when it's all set up, and if you don't like it we can change it. Again."

"Humph. I suppose so," the Captain said at last. He pulled his pipe out of his pocket and put it in his mouth. Together, they walked along the path that led back to the house. Snowy, nose to the ground, snuffled along beside them. "It just… looks bare," the Captain said thoughtfully, looking at the site from over his shoulder.

"Because there's nothing in it," Tintin reminded him. "It'll look fine on Wednesday: trust me."

The Captain stopped and turned back. "Maybe we should turn the lights on again and" –

"No!" Tintin said quickly. They'd already disconnected the electrics and put the extension cords and portable generator back in the gardener's shed: he had no intention of lugging it all back down to the site again. "Sometimes, it's better to just walk away and face the problem again with a fresh mind and fresh eyes."

"Aye. I suppose you're right…"

"Besides," Tintin said, desperately trying to change the subject, "didn't you want to go down to the dig site and check up on them? We should go now, before it gets dark." He paused and looked up at the patches of sky they could see through the skeletal branches. "Darker," he corrected himself.

"Yeah, true enough." The Captain sighed and turned away from the marquee at last, and Tintin breathed out in relief.

They walked on in silence, enjoying the still evening air. They were far enough from the road here that they could only hear the heaviest of trucks, but the evening traffic hadn't started properly yet. The local schools were on their mid-term break and the commuters from the city wouldn't clog up the road for at least another hour or two. All they could hear was the soft noise of the wind in the trees, and the autumn birds calling to one another. Off to their right, some distance away, a branch snapped: probably a rabbit – they ran wild around here – or maybe even a badger or a fox, although it was a bit early in the day for either of those. Snowy's ears twitched as he listened, but whatever it was hadn't alarmed him: he didn't bother to investigate it or chase it.

They reached the end of the track and the house came into view. They were approaching it from the side. They could see the house's profile and part of the gravelled yard at the front. Strangely, Professor Fort's car was there. "I wonder what that old wind-bag wants?" the Captain asked.

"Don't be mean," Tintin said. "He's not that bad. Oh, crikey, he's talking to Cuthbert!" They picked up the pace and hurried to the house: Tintin because he wanted to save Professor Fort from Cuthbert's deafness, and the Captain because he was eager not to miss anything that could be hilarious.

"… which was when I discovered that I'm not a fan of felching," Cuthbert was saying. "On the other hand, if I go into a bathroom stall and" –

"Professor Fort!" Tintin said loudly. The Professor looked at them, his eyes wide and staring. He looked slightly shell-shocked. Most people did after their first encounter with Cuthbert Calculus.

"Spoil sport," the Captain muttered.

"Ah!" Professor Fort said. "Felicitations to you both. I was just, er, explaining my unexpected problem to this, er, gentleman?" He glanced back to Calculus with a worried expression on his face. "I simply need to see the research students."

"In the library?" Tintin took Cuthbert's arm and led him back into the house. "Of course. I'll show you the way at once."

"May I ask," Professor Fort began. He took his hat off and twisted it in his hands. "This might sound a trifle strange, but perhaps you would be able to help me. What rumors abound on that patch of land you kindly donated? That is to say, are there any stories attached to it?" He looked from Tintin to the Captain. In between them, Cuthbert continued to chatter brightly about frottaging and glory-holes, and the joys of anal sex.

The Captain shoved Calculus into a nearby drawing room and shut the door firmly on him. It wasn't _that_ cruel: it would be at least a half an hour before Cuthbert noticed. "The house was used as a plague hospital," he explained. "They reckon the bodies were all buried down there, away from the stream. And every summer the local kids take metal detectors up there and find old coins. They found a few Roman ones. That's all I really know. Why?"

"It's just…" Professor Fort looked from one to the other. "Well, sirs, I'm not quite sure how to say this. You see, we started digging on a patch that showed promise. The topographical x-ray indicated a roughly rectangular structure beneath the earth that we surmised to be the foundation of an old building. Spurred on by the knowledge of the Roman coins, we thought it might be some kind of ancient structure left over from their tenure in the area. That is to say: some sort of a Roman building."

"And?" Tintin pressed. "What is it?"

"We, uh, we're not _quite _sure. You see, it's not a ruin: it's a complete building. Small, but perfectly formed. A little _too _perfectly formed, if you catch my drift. It appears to be a mausoleum of some sort."

"So?" the Captain said with a shrug. "There's graves down there."

"But it isn't a _large _structure, Captain. We've unearthed the top of it completely, and when I left they were just digging out the door, which appears to be bricked shut. In fact," he said, blushing slightly, "it appears to be a crypt built for one, and whoever that one _is,_ someone went to a great deal of trouble to make sure he stayed inside that crypt."

Silence settled on the little group, disturbed only by Nestor clearing his throat. The Captain jumped and turned on the butler. "What?" he demanded. If Nestor was going to have another hissy-fit about the kitchens, the Captain was damned if he was going down without a fight.

"I have installed him in the Slightly Blue Room," the butler said icily. "I assume this is late enough for you to talk to him?"

"What?" the Captain said, mystified.

"The gentleman who called earlier," Nestor replied chidingly. "You recall, sir, that I appealed to you earlier and you told me you had no time. Since you didn't listen to _why _I was hailing you, I simply installed your caller in the Slightly Blue Room."

"What caller?"

"A Doctor Paduraru."

"That man!" Professor Fort clenched his fists and gnashed his teeth. "Again! He must follow me all his days, the wretched man!"

"Who?"

"He's a dreadful old fraud," Professor Fort said. "Alexander Paduraru: professor of fairy tales at the university of make believe! Oh, he claims to be a parapsychologist" – Professor Fort waved his hand in a dismissive gesture – "from the Poenari Institute of ParaSciences. It's a load of hogwash if you ask me. Science will explain nature without the use of paranormal research." He spat the last two words as though they left a bad taste in his mouth.

"That sounds interesting," Tintin replied, amused at the old man's venomous tone. "Parapsychology is a growing field."

"Believe me, my dear boy, Doctor Paduraru belongs firmly in the realm of bunkum! Now," he paused and looked around, "this library? I must confer with my students and narrow their search parameters to try and puzzle out this mausoleum. That is to say: I'm stumped, gentlemen, and I want to know why."

"Of course, Professor," Tintin replied politely. "Please, come this way."


	6. 6: The Bricked-Up Door

_**6: The Bricked-Up Door**_

Tintin knew the library intimately. He loved books, and had actually added to the already vast collection himself, introducing his own collection of books about foreign countries, history and early cultures. As a result, he was able to walk directly to the shelf the students needed and show them the books that would pertain to the land in question, and – more importantly – the time period in question. The students – there were four all together – huddled over the books while Professor Fort paced restlessly back and forth. Eventually, the professor gave a sigh and shook his head.

"I suppose there's no point waiting," he said at last. "It'll take time for them to pin-point the facts. In the meantime, I think I shall depart: with luck it might be time to open the door to the mysterious crypt. Tell me, young man, do you have an interest in history? Specifically, the local history of this fine house?"

"I do," Tintin said with a grin.

"Then feel free to join our efforts. If the door is exposed I shall be opening it directly."

"Thank you, professor. I'll be down to you later, if you don't mind. I've spent all day up a ladder and I fancy a shower first."

"Take your time, young man, take your time." Professor Fort gave a grand flourish with his arms. "We must document every stage of the discovery, you know. Photographical evidence that no seal has been broken before the doors are opened is very important, should we find something unusual inside. It has been known to happen, you know," he added with a wink. "I was fortunate to be present when the hidden vault was opened in a stately home that shall remain nameless, but let me tell you that the implements for intimacy and pain were a delight to behold. I tell you, young man, that we prescribe an unwarranted amount of modesty to our ancestors."

"You found a sex dungeon?" Tintin asked, hiding his smile with his hand.

"I would be loath to put such a name upon it, but yes: we found a sex dungeon." Professor Fort raised his eyebrows and smiled coquettishly. "One can always be stunned by the past. Don't you agree, young man?" He winked, tipped his floppy hat, and left.

**x**

Doctor Alexander Paduraru was a thin, unctuous man with sallow skin and a tendency to huff before he laughed, which was often. And every time the man made that strange noise, the Captain found himself gripping the arms of his chair and gritting his teeth.

"Naturally," Dr Paduraru was saying, "people push against the para-sciences, unwilling to see what is in front of them. Ignoring the mammoth in the room, as it were *tssss-huff* ha-ha!"

"Naturally," the Captain said through clenched teeth.

"And Professor Fort may have a low opinion of me, but even he will tell you that he's come across things that simply can't be explained by normal science, established historical evidence, or rational thought. There's evidence for ancient astronauts that simply cannot, rationally, be anything other than aliens. The simplest explanation – that people were visited by aliens from another planet, who possessed more advanced technology than the human race did – is often overlooked as 'fantastical'. And yet we are to believe that our ancestors, who were still at the phase of worshiping the sun in the belief that it wouldn't rise the next morning if they didn't sacrifice their children to it, had imagination enough to make sculptures and wall carvings of aeroplanes and air-craft clearly capable of space travel. And yet _I'm _the lunatic! *tssss-huff* Ha-ha!"

The Captain suppressed a shudder. He didn't know what was worse: the huffing noise or the little hissing intake of breath that proceeded it. "Mm," he managed, sounding as non-committal as possible.

"I can see you are not impressed either, but I assure you, Captain, I have evidence" –

"That's not it," the Captain said, waving his hand and trying to relax. "I'm not a man of science, Doctor. I have very little interest in this sort of thing. The only reason Professor Fort is here, is because I'm on the board of trust for the university."

"Aah, of course. There are rumours of your great philanthropy."

"Doctor, the simple fact is: there is nothing down in that field. If there is a crypt down there then it's connected to the Hall. I will not accept any stories about the living dead: I just find it impossible."

"And yet, there's evidence!" Doctor Paduraru leaned forward eagerly. "I can show you the file I brought: it contains genuine reproductions from books in the National Library. Witness testimony from locals and officials involved in the case. There was no explanation for it, Captain: it was a vampire."

There it was: that word again. It was a close tie for what was more annoying: that word, the hissing intake of breath, or the huff itself. "But they don't exist!" the Captain groaned.

"There is evidence in the shape of folk stories, which come from all over the world," Doctor Paduraru insisted. "Captain, all throughout history, through _all _cultures, there are stories of vampires. These are simple people who had no way of communicating with peasants and villagers from other countries. And yet there are similar stories of similar creatures in Africa, Europe, Australia, the Americas… How do you explain that? In an era before books, television, fast communication? That a peasant in Romania could tell the same story as a shaman in Africa?"

The Captain shrugged. "I've never thought about it."

"To argue that we all share a common, cultural memory is far more ridiculous than suggesting that vampires are real! *tssss-huff* Ha-ha!"

There came a light knock at the door and it opened to reveal Tintin, fresh from the shower and wearing a warm jumper and brown cords. He nodded cordially to Doctor Paduraru before addressing the Captain. "I'm just going down to the dig site: Professor Fort thinks they're close to opening that crypt. The research students are taking a break in the kitchen for coffee."

"Do you want a lift?" The Captain's eyes darted from Doctor Paduraru, who was still looking at Tintin, and back to the teenager with an air of desperation.

Tintin smiled smugly, spotting a way to annoy the Captain. "No thanks: you stay here with the good doctor."

"Not at all," Doctor Paduraru said suddenly. "Go with him Captain, while I sort out my files here. When you come back, you'll see that I'm right."

The Captain looked at him oddly. "I seriously doubt we're going to find evidence of vampires today, Doctor."

Paduraru held up his hands. "Captain, if I'm right then there will be certain tell-tale signs. When you enter the crypt there will be an overpowering smell of fresh flowers."

"In a crypt?" Tintin said doubtfully. "Where dead people are buried?"

"Exactly right." Doctor Paduraru nodded. "When the coffin is opened, you should see evidence that the head was removed from the body before burial. There may even be evidence of garlic stuffed in the mouth and a stake through the chest cavity, where the heart once was. If the body is in a normal state, then I shall leave you be. If you see what I have just described, then I believe we are dealing with a vampire and we will have to proceed with caution."

"Caution?" the Captain asked. "What sort of caution?"

"The legends were specific: every time the body has been interfered with the haunting continued and the vampire rose. If Professor Fort insists on exhuming it now, your house _will _become the target of this vampire."

"Legend?" Tintin asked with a frown. "What legend?"

"Why, the legend of the Moulinsart Vampire," Doctor Paduraru said with a wicked grin.

* * *

Dun-dun-_duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuun!_


	7. 7: Cellar Door

**Author's Note**: go and make a cup of coffee or tea or something: this is a pretty long chapter.

* * *

_**7: Cellar Door**_

"And you'll be alright here on your own?" the Captain asked.

Tintin rolled his eyes. "I'll be fine," he insisted. "Honestly, Captain, you don't believe all that, do you? Vampires and ghosties and things that go bump in the night?" He snorted to show his disdain. He did have a healthy respect for some of the para-sciences, like cryptozoology – after all scientists and biologists were still discovering plants and sea creatures long thought to be extinct, and he honestly couldn't explain half of the things he'd seen in Tibet – but vampires were pushing it a bit. "I'm telling you, there's a medical condition that leaves the sufferer weak in sunlight and with a low red-blood count. It's called porphyria . Don't you think it's more likely that so-called 'vampires' were people suffering from that, instead of actually being undead nightmares called forth from the grave?"

The Captain shrugged. "Probably. But you have to admit, it was a bit weird."

Yes, it _was _a bit weird, Tintin had to concede. When the crypt had been opened, with the brickwork pulled down and the doors jimmied open with a crowbar, the first thing that had assaulted them was the fresh scent of flowers. And when the contents of the crypt had been documented, they'd opened the coffin – which had been made of thick stone and was unlike anything Tintin had ever seen before – to find that the person inside had been buried with his head severed and placed neatly on his chest. Inside the head were two almost-perfectly preserved cloves of garlic, and the ribs had been shattered, as though they had been destroyed by something similar to a stake being hammered through them.

But weird as it was, it was also just a little _too _perfect.

Tintin snorted. "Don't worry, Captain. I'll be fine. And you'll be late." It was almost 9pm, and there was a final meeting about the Halloween festivities that night. They had to finalize the menu and a few other small details like that.

"Right." The Captain still looked uneasy. "I have my phone with me, so if there's any trouble just call. I won't be back late, anyway."

That wasn't true, Tintin knew: the meeting was in the village pub. If the Captain was home before 1am, it would be surprising. And if he was home sober it would be a miracle. More likely was that he'd roll in about 3am, and Tintin would have to drive him into the village tomorrow morning to pick up his car. Not that Tintin minded: the other car was a Bugatti.

"And you know that Nestor's at his bridge game tonight?"

"Yes, just like any other Monday."

"Alright. Well, I'm out of here. And remember: any trouble just call me."

"Yes, yes. If the headless horseman shows up, I'll remember to call you."

"Sod that: if the headless horseman shows up get a good photograph of him! I'm still annoyed that we didn't get any good photos of that blasted yeti. The stupid coconut-headed poltroon."

The Captain left, and Tintin finally had the TV to himself. There was a new episode of _The Walking Dead _on in less than an hour: he was looking forward to it. After a bit of a boring start, the series was finally picking up again. After the Captain had gone, he pottered down to the kitchen to make himself a nice cup of hot chocolate.

The house was quiet. It was an old house, and there were certain noises that happened every now and again, like creaks and cracks and squeaks. But they were part of the house, and he barely heard them any more. Except…

_Except…_

He stopped what he was doing, frozen in the action of taking a spoon from the cutlery drawer. Was that creak nearer than usual? He waited, but it didn't come again. He shook his head and continued making his chocolate. The kettle boiled and clicked off.

_There!_

A soft noise, like the scuff of feet on stone. He paused again and waited, the silence almost ringing in his ears. Usually, Nestor played a little radio in the kitchen while he worked or sat, to stave off boredom or to stop his ears from playing tricks on him. Without it, the room seemed bigger than usual: more menacing in its quietness. He shook his head, scolding himself for his nervousness. _There is no such thing as vampires. _He finished making his chocolate, took the cup, and went to go back to the sitting room at the back of the house, where he preferred to watched television.

In the hallway, Snowy sat perfectly still. Tintin stopped dead in his tracks.

He hated when Snowy did this.

"Here boy," he said, hearing the uneasy tone in his own voice. "Come on, Snowy."

Snowy looked around at him, wagged his tail once, and went back to staring at the door to the cellar. Tintin approached carefully. Snowy kept his attention on the door. Tintin put his cup down and tested the handle. It was always locked: the stairs were steep and made of stone, and spiraled sharply. A fall down them by an unsuspecting visitor could do a lot of damage to both the visitor and the Captain's insurance policy.

The door opened. The blackness from the cellar seemed to seep out into the brightly lit hallway.

Tintin swallowed. Snowy started to growl. The dog got up and approached the door cautiously, his head down and his ears back. The growling increased in volume.

Tintin slammed the door shut again and turned the key in the lock. There was nothing down there. There couldn't be anything down there: he was alone in the house. The students were gone; the caterers were long gone; and the workmen had left shortly before dinner. The Captain was in the village and Nestor was at a friend's house playing bridge and gossiping. "There is nothing here," he said out-loud. His voice broke the spell and Snowy looked up at him, wagging his tail happily. Together they went into the sitting room to watch TV and relax.

It was after _The Walking Dead, _when Tintin was yawning and stretching and idly poking Snowy with his toe, that he realized Snowy had a phobia or something about the cellar. Tintin had one too, but that was easily explained: he'd once been kidnapped and held prisoner down there. He didn't like going down there because of that. Snowy, on the other hand, had a fear of one particular spot down there. The dog, when confronted with that spot, would sit and stare at the wall for ages, his quick black eyes following something that only he could see. That wall was always colder than other areas of the cellar, even though the whole place was built of stone and underground.

"You're a mad little thing, aren't you?" Tintin murmured, rubbing his stockinged foot along Snowy's side. The dog leaned into the touch lazily. It was late; almost 11pm now and Tintin was tired too. "Time for bed, hmm?" he asked. Snowy's ears perked up and flicked forward: he understood the word bed. 'Bed' meant two things: playing with Ball outside for a few minutes before going to a warm place to sleep. It was his nightly routine.

Tintin yawned widely and got up. He opened the French doors and let Snowy out. "Find your ball," he ordered, before turning away and pottering around the room, unplugging the lamps and the television. By the time he was finished, Snowy was waiting impatiently at the French door, his little yellow tennis ball – covered in muck and with the felt half-chewed off – on the doormat. Tintin picked it up and gave it a few good throws. When Snowy started to pant it was time to stop.

"Make!" Tintin ordered. Snowy obediently cocked his leg in the rose bush and did his nightly widdle. Then, it was bedtime. With a huge yawn Tintin locked the French doors, turned off the light and went back into the hall.

The cellar door was open.

He stopped dead and stared at it. It was slightly ajar. _I locked you, _he thought. _I locked you good. Didn't I? Did I? I could have _sworn _I locked you. _

He approached it slowly. "Hello?" he called. He opened the door a bit wider and looked down at the winding stone staircase. Nothing moved: nothing made any noise at all. "Strange," he mused. "I guess I didn't lock it at all, huh Snowy?" He looked down at the dog.

Snowy's head was down, his ears laid flat against his head. The hair at the back of his neck and along the ridge of his back had risen and he was starting to growl again. Sufficiently freaked out, Tintin slammed the door and locked it again. This time, he took the key out and hung it on the nail beside the door. He checked the handle once, twice, three times: it was locked. It was firmly locked. To help himself remember, he clicked his fingers three times. "I have locked this," he said aloud, ignoring the small feeling of foolishness that was creeping up on the feeling of unsettled unease. "This door is locked. Stop growling, Snowy."

**x**

By midnight, Tintin was lying flat out in bed on his belly, a book propped against the pillows and Snowy pressed against his side under the blankets. It was warm and cosy and he was starting to feel very drowsy. He had begun to reread his old Terry Pratchett books, and was up to _Witches Abroad _in the Lancre Witches series. It was funny, but at the same time there were elements in it, like mirror magic, that resonated with him. Old legends and folk-tales about mirrors and luck danced at the corner of his consciousness.

About five minutes later he awoke with a start. His chin had been planted firmly in the palm of one hand while he was resting on his elbows. Slowly, his eyes had started to close and his face had ended up planted in the soft-smelling pages of the book. He snorted back to wakefulness and decided there was no point fighting it: he was just too tired to stay awake any more. He yawned again and closed the book, carefully marking his page, before snuggling under the blanket. In the still warmth, Snowy tossed and turned and pushed his warm nose into Tintin's face and started to lick.

"Bluh." Tintin pushed the dog away, but Snowy came back. "No, Snowy, not now." Snowy started to keen a little; soft whimpers that threatened to grow into barks. "What?" Tintin asked plaintively. Sometimes, he wished Snowy could talk: there was nothing more annoying than having to play Guess What The Dog Wants. "What's wrong? Do you need to pee again? Ugh, _fine. _Come on, then." Tintin pushed the blankets back regretfully and got up, hissing as his warm feet came into contact with the cold wood of the floor. He quickly found his slippers and grabbed his fluffy dressing gown, and headed back downstairs.

Still yawning and wishing for bed, he reached the front door and opened it. Snowy trotted out, his feet pitter-patting against the steps down to the gravelled front of the house. Tintin turned on the outside light and the inside light, and leaned against the wall to wait for the dog. He idly glanced around.

The cellar door was open.

His heart almost stopped. He eyed the dark gap between the door and the wall, a cold sweat breaking out over his body. His arms rose in goose-pimples that had nothing to do with the cold of the night outside. He suddenly felt wide awake. A feeling of dread crept into the pit of his stomach and twisted his guts.

He had locked that door. He was sure of it this time. A low growl from around his ankles indicated that Snowy had seen the door. He wasn't dreaming: it _was _open. Slowly he started towards it, forcing his feet to move. When he finally reached it he slammed it shut and twisted the key in the lock once more. He tested the handle again, and again, and again, before taking the key out. He held it in his hand, weighing his options as he weighed the heavy iron. He shook his head. This couldn't be happening. There _had _to be a rational explanation for this.

He made up his mind. He quickly went to the Slightly Blue Room and took the heavy folder Doctor Paduraru had left with them – all the so-called evidence for the Moulinsart Vampire – and brought it back to the kitchen. He paused on his way, outside the cellar door, but it was still locked and closed. He tested the door handle again but the door stayed firmly shut. He shook his head and went into the kitchen, pausing only to turn on the light, the kettle and the radio for company. He carefully put the key to the cellar on the counter top before fetching a cup from the cupboard. Snowy pattered at his feet, spooked and sticking firmly by his master's side. Tintin made a cup of tea and sat down at the long wooden table, the folder in front of him and his tea at his side. Snowy, meanwhile, lay down on his feet. Tintin could feel the dog's body shake with tiny tremors. He opened the folder and pulled out the 'evidence'.

* * *

_**The Moulinsart Vampire**_

Moulinsart was founded in the early 15th Century by a branch of the Hapsburg family as part of the Valois-Burgundy fiefdom. Led by the reckless knight, Francois du Sart-Mulan, this particular branch sought to increase the holdings of the Burgurdians-Netherlands legacy by striking out from Luxemburg to start the colonization of neighbouring lands in what would become modern-day Belgium. The colonization of the low countries, which began in the 1380's and continued for over a hundred years, was entirely successful, and in addition to the French and Netherlands territory, almost all of Belgium was settled and ruled by the Valois-Burgundy.

Francois du Sart-Mulan quickly gained a reputation as a rake and a scoundrel. Of the original inhabitants of the area, very few remained by the time the Valois-Burgundy family intervened. The original village was burned to the ground shortly after the original manor house was built, and the majority of the men were killed outright. Some of the younger, stronger men – but only those that had no martial training – were kept alive as slaves and used to build the monastery and town the Valois-Burgundy's had planned. Records that the monks kept still exist in the vaults of the National Library. Taken from a letter by a Father Augustine to his superior:

_"Thee lorde is a harde man. There is, beside the foundations, a large pit, whence the dying slaves are thrown like offal. Thee stench is overwhelming, and thee cries of thee piteous victims is like thee mewling of kittens. I pray for them, but thee lorde has dissalowed us from tending to their wounds. Nor would thee men dye, but forre his meaness. He will not feed them aught but stale bread, and their water is spoilt from rotting caracesses toss'd into thee river from thee battle. It is a place of death, and we muste work hard for God to clear this place of evil."_

The town and its monastery were prosperous at first, becoming a busy trading post for the Valois-Burgundy empire. But slowly merchants and their families began to arrive at the Hapsburg and Valois-Burgundy cities with tales of strange things they had seen and heard in Moulinsart. They told of frightened families unable to flee; of farmers and labourers whose daughters and sons had been taken hostage by Francoise du Sart-Mulan to ensure his workers had a reason to stay: they would not have stayed there if they didn't have so much to lose by leaving. The mass-grave pits remained and slaves brought into the area to work the vast plantation that covered most of the surrounding countryside were worked to death and dumped in. From a letter written by a prominent merchant at the time, to his patron [National Library]:

_"The forest is almost all dead, yet it has not been cut down. It is though an infection lives in the very land. Even the people are half-dead: pale faces and tite lips; thin frames and hacking coughs. They have barely enuff to eat and yet their lord is one of the wealthiest in the land. The children starve. The smell of death and decay, from the great pits of dead men, lies over all, and in the middle of this the house perches like a great eagle or a bird of preye. It is a bad place, and I am loathe to travel there again. I wudde almost prefer to go by way of Namur, though it adds almost a weeke to the journey. If not for the calves and lambs, I would certainly go by way of Namur." _

Twenty years after du Sart-Mulan began his reign in Moulinsart, and with stories of death and blood trickling slowly back to the other princes, the Hapsburgs intervened and sent Philipe of Normandy – a prosperous cousin with considerable holdings in France – to oversee Francois. Philipe, under the guise of a familial visit, brought his whole family to Francois with the orders of reporting back to the Hapsburgs. Among his entourage was his wife, Mary; his second-eldest son Alain (the eldest, Philipe, was in Austria); his two daughters, Mary and Margaret, and his youngest child, a boy of two that was described by the local monks as_ 'a beautiful boy of fair complexxion'. _

Exactly what happened is unknown: very few records exist from this time bar a few writings from Philipe the Elder to his cousins in Burgundy and a journal written by his daughter Mary. What we do know, is that an accident befell the child, who's name has been lost to history, shortly after their arrival in Moulinsart. The only record of this accident is in a book written by the monks, which remains in the archives of the National Library. From the book:

_"Thee lorde claims that thee childe fell from thee Walk. I am unsure: there are wounds to his throat and wrists that looke like thee teeth of wolves. He is buried by his father in thee lorde's lands, may God rest his soul."_

(the 'Walk' mentioned here is the impressive Widow's Walk, which was destroyed in a fire at a later date and never rebuilt)

It was at this time that the villagers started to tell another story. From the same book, dated a year later:

_"Thee wyse woman makes poppets to protect thee children of thee village. Thees trinkets, of stone and hair, are disturbing to looke at, yet thee children keep them safe at all times. Now, when darkeness comes, thee village is locked up titely: they say thee dead childe stalks thee land, calling out for his mother. Last month thee man, Aud Marcell, was found dead in thee old forest. Brother Fairus saw thee body, and tolde me in confidence that thee old man's face was frozen in a rictus of horror. I paye no heede to pagan tales of thee dead rising from their graves, but if ever there was a place that it could happen, it is this place."_

From Mary's journal [National History Museum]:

_"Nell [Margaret] is troubled at night. She tosses and turns in her sleep, crying out for the child. She is loud enough to wake me, and draw me from my own bed to her rooms and when I wake her, her skin is cold to the touch and clammy. Her face is paler than usual, and it is though she is sickening. She is unwell, and a fever burns her during the daylight hours. She can barely stand to be in the sun, preferring to stay in her room with the drapes drawn. At night she gets no peace. My mother says she must be given peace, and yet my cousin [Francois] does his best to rouse her in the evenings. He often sits by her bed when we are at prayers, and offers her comfort."_

Curious that Francois only visits Margaret at night? In any case, a month after her 'sickness' began, Margaret worsened and died before the doctor could arrive. She too was buried by the monks. From their records [National Library]:

_"Thee girl was as fair and beautiful as thee childe. It is a shame that thee family is so striken. She makes a pretty corpse: her skin is flushed as though life still lives in her, but there stirs no breath from her lips and her heart is still. She is buried with her brother."_

From the monks, dated a few weeks later [National Library]:

_"Thee villagers are in a state of panic. Three of their children are missing; taken in the night by assailants unknown. There is no disarray in the morning, and no sound has been heard by thee families, and yet thee children are gone. Thee wyse woman swears that there is a lady that walks at night, wearing a white burial shroud, or perhaps a wedding gown. Her pagan lies have sweep't the village and fevered thee imaginations of thee people. They mutter under their breaths as thee lorde passes by, and make thee sign of thee evil eye at his back. Some say he is a devil from hell, sent by thee Lord God to test them." _

The next to sicken was Philipe the younger. Described as hale and hearty, with an appetite for hunting and a love of outdoors, Philipe was a renowned horseman who hoped to follow his brother into military service in Austria when he was old enough. However, rumour has it that following a night playing cards with his cousin Francois, Philipe started to sicken and was struck with the same weakness that had afflicted Margaret. Eager to save his son, Philipe the elder sent Philipe the younger back to Normandy where he recovered quickly. Shortly after that, he was sent to Austria with his sister, Mary, who was entrusted to a convent until her father was finished his work in Moulinsart. During that time, his wife Mary sickened and died, and there were tales of two 'white women' roaming the land. From a letter from Philipe the elder to his Hapsburg masters [National Archive]:

_"[we] have reached the end. My family dies from the evil in this place, and I must flee. And yet every day more and more people sicken and die, and tales of my daughter Nell and my Darling Mary are everywhere: they haunt the dying forest and the grassy meadows. They lie in wait at the crossroads for unwary souls. If it weren't for my own experience I would doubt my sanity, and yet my poor Nell haunts my dreams. She cries for me, begging me to take her from her crypt. She holds my dear baby, my own darling [illegible: John? Jean? Check genealogy charts] in her arms, and his wails mix with hers. And over it all I hear the demonic laughter of Francois, taunting me. I will leave this place before my mind breaks."_

And yet Philipe the elder didn't make it out of Moulinsart: the night before he was due to leave he fell from the same Widow's Walk his son fell from and broke his neck. He lingered for about an hour, tended to by a monk versed in healing, before finally dying. From the monks [National Library]:

_"Thee man did rave before being called to his final rest. He said he could see his baby, and that he did try to stop thee boy from falling from thee Walk. He said thee spectre led him through thee house, and did push him. He was mad, of course, from pain and loss. I did give him thee last rites before he was called back to God. May he rest in peace."_

It was enough: the Valois-Burgundy moved against Francois, sending a squadron of knights under the command of Peter De Courtenay, to remove Francois from power. However, events in the village of Moulinsart had already come to a head, and by the time Peter De Courtenayarrived Francois was already dead. From the monks [National Library]:

_"Thee lorde was taken from his bed in thee morning, when he was at rest. They did bring him out to thee sunlight, where he did writhe in agony. Fra Ezrath, my brother in Christ, did anoint thee man with holy water and try to drive thee demon out, but it did resist, and thee people did have their way: they tied thee lorde and drove a stake through his heart. Blood did gush from his mouth, Fra Ezrath said, and thee demon spake in a loud voice, calling for his familiar and cursing God. Fra Ezrath did strike him in thee face, and tell him to embrace God to end his suffering. It was, Fra Ezrath said, a terrible thing, for though thee heart was pierced and kill'd, thee man continued speaking and cursing God. Thee wyse woman did step up next and, calling aloud to God, did strike his head from his shoulders. _

_"Then, they did open up thee crypt and were assaulted by the smell of roses. Fra Ezrath did say that it was sickly sweete, as a pestilence or a plague of some sort. Thee bodies that lay therein, of which there were four, were found to be in the bloom of health. Neither decay nor death had touched them, although each of them had been anointed and given a Christian burial under the watchful eyes of God and my brother monks. Fra Ezrath did say that their cheeks were pale and full, and their lips were red and seemed to smile, and upon their faces were the countenance of pure peace, and yet something wickid did lie over all. The baby, who had been dead the longest, was not in his own coffin: he now lay in his mother's arms, though she was put to rest on her own. _

_"They did place thee lorde inside, burning thee bodies of thee unfortunate children and parents who had died here formerly. Thee wyse woman did spake spells over thee body, and pushed into thee lorde's mouth two cloves of garlick to warde away further evil. This crypt was bricked up and buried wholey by thee men, who will stand watch over it for a fortnight to ensure thee monster stays dead." _

According to the maps of the regions [National Museum of Heritage], the crypt is somewhere in the southern fields of the current Marlinspike Hall

* * *

Tintin pushed the papers away from him and suppressed a shudder. They were tales from another time, from another place. They had no baring on the here-and-now.

Did they?

Around him, the house kept its silence. He shook his head and put the papers back into their folder. "It's all a load of rubbish," he said aloud, and the sound of his own voice made him feel better; less alone. Snowy, who was lying down over his feet, put his head up and wuffed softly. Tintin pushed his chair back a little, so he could look down at the inquisitive, sleepy dog. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

Snowy wagged his tail politely.

"Good for you. Come on: let's go and see if everything's still locked up tight." He moved his foot and Snowy got up reluctantly. Together they padded out to the hall again.

And stopped dead.

The cellar door was open.

Again.

Walking backwards without taking his eyes off the opened door, Tintin moved back into the kitchen. His hands groped blindly for the key, but when he risked a glance at the sideboard it was gone. It was now back in the lock of the cellar door. He looked out at the gaping door from the warm, well-lit kitchen, and made up his mind: it was time to call the Captain.


	8. 8: Night of the Living Dead Tired

_**8: Night of the Living Dead Tired**_

The Captain tested the handle of the cellar door. It opened easily enough.

"I locked that door," Tintin said. "I swear, Captain, I locked that door!"

"Where's the key?"

"Here." Tintin took the key out of his pocket and handed it over to the Captain.

The Captain hadn't got a clue what was going on, but he was glad he was lubricated enough to deal with it. He'd been on his third pint in the pub – the meeting about the Halloween fair was already over by then – when he'd received a phone call from Tintin. The lad had rambled on about the cellar for a few minutes before the Captain had been able to calm him down. After that, the Captain had called a taxi and gone straight home to find Tintin and Snowy sitting outside in the freezing October night, huddled together on the steps outside the front door. Now, they were inside and staring at a door.

"So you're telling me that all night this door kept unlocking itself?" the Captain asked.

"Yes."

"You lock it; you go off; you come back; it's standing open."

"Yes."

"And nobody else is in the house?"

"I've checked all over: there's nobody here but me."

"And you checked down in the cellar?"

Silence.

Tintin didn't like the cellar, the Captain knew. He didn't blame the lad in the slightest. "Right, go and fetch my torch, and I'll check the cellar."

Tintin disappeared for a few minutes. The Captain tapped his foot and hummed to himself to take his mind off that old story, of the woman in the house with the dog that was choking, and when she brought the dog to the vet she went home and the vet rang to say the dog was choking on someone's fingers and there was someone hiding in the house…

Or the babysitter getting menacing phone calls and the police trace the calls back to a second extension in attic of the same house…

Or the vengeful ghost of a vampire, risen from his desecrated grave to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting inhabitants of his rightful house…

The Captain shivered, and wished he hadn't had that double whisky while he was waiting for the taxi to arrive. He _should _have had a treble instead…

"Here you go!"

The Captain jumped and swore loudly. "Blistering barnacles, don't sneak up on me!" He snatched the torch from Tintin. "Right." He swallowed nervously. "Right," he said again. "You stay here."

"God no! I'm coming with you."

"That's brave of you," the Captain said. "What if there _is _something down there?"

"Screw bravery: what if it came out when I was waiting outside, and as soon as you go down there it kills me? I'm not staying up here on my own!"

"That's a fair point." The Captain took a deep breath and opened the door. The spiral stone staircase wound down into the murky darkness. They slowly crept down, with the Captain in the front holding the torch and Snowy trotting along between them.

"God, it's dark," the Captain whispered when they reached the bottom. He swung the torch around, trying to illuminate as much of the cavernous cellar as he could. "Remind me tomorrow to get Nestor to replace the light bulbs down here."

"We're underground," Tintin whispered back. "What did you expect?"

"Shut up. Right. What now?"

"Uh, we investigate?" They looked at each other. "Well?" Tintin said. "Go on: investigate!"

"You're the investigative reporter," the Captain shot back.

"Yes, but you have the torch."

"Oh yeah." The Captain looked at the torch, then held it out to Tintin. "Here you go."

Tintin took the torch with a sigh. He had to admit that he felt a lot better with the Captain by his side. The spooky events of the night felt further away, and his stomach felt a lot better. It wasn't twisting with unease anymore. "Ok, so where do we investigate first?" he asked, still whispering.

"I don't know. Maybe we should walk through the whole place?"

"Ok. Just stay close to me, ok?" Tintin said. "Don't leave me down here on my own!"

"Don't be daft: I won't do that! Now come on!"

They crept through the main cellar. It was mostly empty. At the back stood four thin, short iron poles that had been driven into the ground. The remnants of yellow and black police tape still wound through them; evidence of Tintin's former imprisonment by the Bird Brothers. To the left was a large iron door, and behind that was another long storeroom filled with expensive junk. To the right was a hole in the thin brickwork leading to a hidden storeroom and the abandoned Catholic chapel.

"Let's check the door first," Tintin whispered, shining the torch on the metal door in the left-hand wall. They went to it and tentatively tested the handles: it was still locked. Nobody had been in there, anyway.

"Now what?" the Captain asked nervously.

"I guess we try the hole in the wall?" Tintin offered. He shone his torch on the hole. It gaped menacingly, like a toothless maw that threatened to swallow them whole. They went to it reluctantly.

Tintin bent down and leaned through, pointing the torch first to the left, and then to the right. Behind him, he could feel the Captain getting down on his hunkers and leaning over Tintin's shoulder to get a better view.

"Looks the same as ever," the Captain whispered.

"It does, doesn't it?" And it did: it was filled with junk. There were old cabinets half falling apart from woodworm, rusted suits of armour and broken weaponry from earlier centuries. Old, cracked vases sat atop armchairs that leaked stuffing, and water stained paintings leered drunkenly down at chests that had long ago lost their keys. A tall statue stood at the end of the passage, just out of the light of the torch; a darker shadow than the blackness around it.

"There's nothing here," the Captain said, speaking in a normal voice. He laughed, relieved. "By thunder, lad, you really put the shits up me!" He clapped Tintin on the shoulder. "Nice try, but no cigar!"

"I'm not joking!" Tintin insisted. "I'm telling you, Captain, I locked that door and it kept opening itself. On its own."

"Yeah, right. Pull the other one, will you."

"Captain, I'm serious! I locked that door!"

"Yeah, yeah." The Captain rolled his eyes. "And I'm a grand piano!"

Snowy started to growl.

At the end of the passage the statue moved. And walked away.

"Run!"

They couldn't tell which of them had said it – it could have been both of them at the same time – but they obeyed and scrambled to their feet, and ran for their lives back to the spiral staircase. Up, up, around, up, around, neither daring to look over their shoulders to see what was chasing them, or if anything was chasing them: they simply ran.

_The door was closed!_

"Captain!" Tintin squeaked.

"Get out the flaming way!" The Captain put his head down and charged the door. It wasn't locked, however, and it flew open as soon as his shoulder hit it. They fell over each other in their haste to reach the relative safety of the house, scrambling over one another to get the hell away from the cellar. Once they were clear of the door, and Snowy was bouncing around on their heads excitedly, the Captain flipped over and kicked the door shut with the heel of his shoe. It slammed closed and they lay there, staring at it, panting hard.

"Now do you believe me?" Tintin managed to croak.

"Yes," the Captain said tightly. "I think I do."

"I don't think I can sleep tonight," Tintin admitted.

"I don't think I can ever sleep again," the Captain replied.

"So what do we do? Who do we call?"

"Ghostbusters?" the Captain joked weakly. "I don't know, lad. That fellow… what's-his-name. Para-thingy."

"Paduraru?"

"That's the one. We'll call him first thing in the morning."

"And what do we do in the meantime?"

They did the only thing they could do. They locked the door again and fetched two chairs from the kitchen. Placing them side by side in the hall, facing the door, they sat down and waited for morning to come.


	9. 1: The Reopening of the Door

**PART TWO: L'OMBRE DU VAMPIRE**

****_30th of October_

* * *

_**1: The Reopening of the Door**_

"How many times do I need to say it? Keep this door closed!"

The slamming of the door woke Tintin with a snort. He surreptitiously wiped a bit of dribble from his mouth and looked around, blinking to clear his vision and his head. Beside him, the Captain farted and grinned as he woke up.

They were still in their chairs and they were still facing the cellar door. Snowy had wandered off – probably to find a better sleeping place. At some point during the night they had all fallen asleep. Nestor, resplendent in his white butler's jacket glared at them. "For the last time," he said, biting his words out in irritation, "keep the cellar door closed!" He turned on his heel and stormed off to the kitchen.

Tintin looked at the Captain, who was staring at the cellar door. The Captain shook his head. "That's it," he said. "That's the limit. I'm calling that vampire weirdo."


	10. 2: Don't Go Into The Cellar

_**2: Don't Go Into The Cellar**_

Tintin paused at the door and listened. The Captain was eating breakfast and trying to convince Nestor that nobody had left the cellar door open all night. The butler was, of course, skeptical and kept muttering under his breath in a way that always got the Captain's goat. At his feet, Snowy's head poked out from under the table cloth waiting for the Captain to pass down some bacon.

Tintin quickly closed the door and hurried on. He held a proper flash light in one hand and was walking with some determination towards the cellar door.

He wasn't convinced. Now, in the cold, hard light of day he was _far _from convinced. He refused to believe that the opening of that strange crypt had resurrected the ghost of a long-dead vampire. Those strange stories in the files meant nothing: modern medicine had come a long way since then. Now, the best way to deal with mental health issues was to get real medical help. Back then it was pitchforks and torches! Surely they'd come a long way from staking 'vampires' through the heart, burning 'witches' at the stake, and exorcising 'demons' from schizophrenics?

Doctor Paduraru had sounded very excited on the phone. He'd warned them to stay away from the cellar. He'd come as soon as it was possible, and bring a team of experts with him. They would go down to the cellar by themselves and conduct a series of paranormal tests, and when they were finished or had enough evidence to convince them something was really going on, they would do their best to cleanse the house.

That was the part Tintin was having a hard time believing. Not that something down there could be amiss: he had seen a lot that he couldn't explain, and wasn't closed to the possibilities of anything (except Scientology: he was pretty sure _that _was a load of crap). Loch Ness might be too small to hold a colony of dinosaurs but there was a lot of ocean out there. Who was to say there wasn't monstrous fish? Hell, sharks were practically dinosaurs! Of course there could be 'ghosts', or perhaps psychic resonance – some places had seen a lot more death than others. Prisons, and mental hospitals… places like that. Battle fields. Sites where planes had crashed. Unexpected, sudden, multiple deaths. Maybe ghosts were simply strongly implanted 'memories' fated to replay their last moments over and over in the place where they had died?

Or maybe they were the tortured souls of the departed, cursed to wander the earth for all eternity, or until they'd atoned for a past misdeed.

There were all sorts of possibilities. And not all of the stories and photographs could be proved to be false. Some existed that seemed to have genuinely caught a glimpse at another world; a ghostly parasite world that clung tenuously to the real one…

But what was puzzling was the idea that Doctor Paduraru would think he would be allowed to go down to the cellar, with a team of outsiders, with no impartial supervision, to plant fake evidence of a vampire.

And Tintin was sure that was what the good doctor would do: sprinkle some dust and make footprints, and then claim it was the vampire that had done it. Or perhaps he'd pour a bottle of fake blood over the floor. He could set up a Dictaphone and get one of his friends to fake ghostly noises.

Well, not today. Not today. As the Captain was fond of saying: 'That dog won't hunt, monsignor'. Tintin was going down there first. He was going to make sure that everything was neat and tidy and there wasn't a single whiff of garlic in the air or errant stake lying around. He was going to turn on the security cameras and make sure Doctor Paduraru wasn't trying to pull a fast one.

He went down the winding, stone stairs and turned his torch on as the light disappeared. It was slightly brighter during the day – there were small, rectangular windows high up on the walls in the main chamber that peeked over the flat, gravelled yard at the front of the house, and let a little daylight in – but there still wasn't enough light for him to see clearly by.

The main chamber itself was quite empty. During the day it looked a lot less foreboding than the night before. He could even see the old trampoline (they'd broken that a few months ago, in an unfortunate accident involving a pole-vault and a pogo stick) leaning against the far corner. He went to it and checked behind it, carefully flashing the light all around the corner. It was, logically, the only place to hide in the main chamber. There simply wasn't anything else in there that was big enough. The old chest was right against the wall, and was too shallow for anyone smaller than a ten year old to fit inside of.

There were two options again: the steel doors, which couldn't be opened by anyone other than the Captain (and those keys were kept upstairs in the safe, because the room on the other side of that door held a lot of priceless rubbish the Bird brothers had accumulated: it had come with the house because nobody knew what else to do with it) or the hole into the dark stone corridor.

With a sigh, he headed towards the hole.

It wasn't as though he was freaked out by the hole. He didn't think he was anyway. It was just that it was really dirty on the other side of it, and every time he went in there he got covered in dirt and dust and it was horrible. Plus, at the very end of it there was that spot on the wall that Snowy growled at. There was nothing _there, _but Snowy still stood and growled at it. And the space around that wall was colder than everywhere else… And it was noticeable too: if you were wearing a t-shirt on a hot day you'd be cool in the cellar, but once you stepped into that spot you'd get goose-bumps on your arms. It was _cold. _

He peered carefully through the hole. He really, really didn't want to see that statue again either. That was a thought that wouldn't go out of his head. What if he put his head through and the statue was right _there? _Just standing there, looking at him, getting ready to _move _again.

_That _was something he couldn't explain. There had been something – or somebody, his brain reminded him – standing at the end of the dark corridor as still as a statue. And the thing – or person – had walked away. Had just waited, watching the Captain and Tintin messing about and talking, and then just walked away.

Wincing, Tintin looked quickly around. There was nothing there.

He let out a happy sigh and immediately relaxed. The corridor was still lined with the same bunch of junk that had always been there, but there was no shadowy person waiting at the end of it to kill him. And it definitely couldn't have been a Weeping Angel because it had moved when they were looking at it. He would have to check that out on the internet to make certain, but he was sure they only moved when nobody was watching them.

He crawled through the opening and stood up on the other side, shining the flash light around. He could see dust motes floating in the air, visible in the bright shaft of artificial light and he knew he was going to be filthy by the time this was over. He quickly walked to the end of the corridor, trying not to see things out of the corner of his eye – did that suit of armour move? Was that the face of a person or a stone statue? Were those hidden eyes that watched him or the blind stare of a portrait? He slowed down when he neared the end of the corridor. He could feel the cold seeping into the air now, bleeding out of the blank space like an infection. He stopped and reached out, the skin on his hand and forearm tingling in the sudden drop of temperature. His hair rose in goose-pimples.

He physically shook himself, trying to pulling himself together. He was deliberately scaring himself now, for some reason. It was stupid. "There is nothing down here," he said aloud, and heard the annoyed tone in his voice clearly. It broke his tension and he set about looking for clues. There were scuff marks in the dust on the floor, and it did look as though someone had stood in that spot. It looked, in fact, as though someone had walked down that corridor, stood for a moment, and then turned and walked through the wall…

Tintin frowned and shone the light at the wall. It was the same solid, grey brick as the rest of the cellar. There was nothing there. Could it be that someone had come down here, perhaps looking for something, and had been interrupted by Tintin and the Captain? Could that person have taken a few steps back and pressed themselves against the wall, hoping that the darkness would be enough to take them out of the Captain's and Tintin's line of sight? And if Tintin and the Captain had fallen asleep at the top of the stairs, outside the door, wouldn't the interloper _have_ to open the door to get out past them? And wanting to move quietly, would he have left the door slightly ajar instead of risking the loud clicking noise it made as it closed, in case it woke them up?

That was far more likely than a vampire walking through solid stone.

But why would anyone be down here in the first place? There was nothing down there worth anything: all the good stuff was locked behind the steel doors and sold off as and when a buyer was found. All the real junk was kept here. He shone the torch around illuminating a hat stand; a dresser that looked like it was half-woodworm, half fresh air; an old tarnished tray… On top of that was a small wooden chest; on the wall above it all was a painting of a dull landscape, the glass smashed and the frame broken.

It was just rubbish. Tintin picked up the wooden box, expecting it to be empty and light. Surprisingly, it was heavy. He weighed it carefully in one hand, and when he shook it slowly he could _feel _something inside moving ponderously to and fro, rather than hear it. He put it down on the dresser again and placed the handle of the torch between his teeth, concentrating the light on the box. He turned the wooden container around, until the lock was facing him. He tried to open the lid half-heartedly, but of course it wouldn't budge. But then he noticed that the box didn't _have _a lock: the keyhole was ornamental. There was a thick clasp that had curved down, into a long tube that held the two sides closed. He carefully flicked the clasp and it came out of the tube, and the lid opened easily.

He stared at the contents.


	11. 3: Prof Blomberg's Vampire Killing Kit

_**3: Professor Blomberg's Vampire Killing Kit (patent pending)**_

The Captain stared at the contents.

"In our cellar?" he asked, incredulous.

"Uh-huh," Tintin said with a slight nod. He was sitting on the couch, on the very edge of the seat. His elbows were resting on his knees as his chin rested in his hands. He was carefully watching the Captain's reaction.

"You found _this, _in _our _cellar?"

"Yes."

The Captain's hand hovered over the open box, as though he was trying to decide which of the interesting items he wanted to examine first. There were _so many _interesting items in that box. It was a difficult choice.

In the end, he settled on the gun.

He took it out and held it properly, and turned it from side to side to see if he could find the safety switch.

He could not.

"Well I'll be blowed," he said calmly.

Tintin raised an eyebrow. He'd been expecting a different reaction to this. A slightly more... rowdy one. "Did you see the holy water?" he tried.

"I did." The Captain laid the gun down carefully – it was a very old model; sort of like an antique musket that had been modified by a very clever person, so that it looked more like a modern-day gun. If it _was _an antique its maker was light years ahead of his peers – and pulled out one of the small glass bottles. The lid looked like it was a crystal stopper. It was very old and expensive looking.

"And the stakes?"

"Oh, is that what they are?" He put the glass bottle down and pulled out the aged, wooden stakes. "I was wondering about them. You hear about staking a vampire through the heart, but I can't remember seeing a film where it happens."

"You never saw _Salem's Lot?" _

"No, I read the book. It was very good."

"Yeah. It was actually better than the film."

"Books usually are."

They took a minute to stare at the contents of the box. It was quite a packed little box, with red velvet lining and compartments inside for the different weapons. Inside the lid, mounted on a red velvet backing, was a small yellowed piece of card that read, in fancy writing:

"Vampire Killing Kit.

"This box contains the items considered necessary for the protection of persons who travel into certain little-known countries of Eastern Europe, where the populace are plagued with a particular manifestation of evil known as _Vampires. _Professor Earnst Blomberg respectfully requests that the purchaser of this kit, carefully studies his book in order, should evil manifestations become apparent, he is equipped to deal with them efficiently. Professor Blomberg wishes to announce his grateful thanks to that well known gunmaker of Léige, Nicholas Piomdeur whose help in the compiling of the special items, the silver bullets &c, has been most efficient*."

This was then followed by a list of some of the items the box contained.

"(1) An efficient pistol with its usual accoutrements.

(2) Silver bullets.

(3) An ivory crucifix.

(4) Powdered flowers of garlic.

(5) Five wooden stakes.

(6) A vial of holy water.

(7) Professor Blomberg's new serum."

They spread the contents out as the Captain read them aloud. At the end sat a small glass bottle half-filled with a thick, black substance that moved slowly when it was tipped on its side. "That must be Professor Blomberg's new serum," Tintin said, tapping the small bottle on its crystal lid.

"Must be," the Captain said quietly.

"I wonder what it is?"

"Probably something to set 'em on fire. Or make 'em burn faster."

"Captain!" Tintin stared at him, amused. "This isn't real! Vampires don't exist!"

"How do you explain this!" the Captain exclaimed, gesturing to the Vampire Killing Kit. "This isn't a fake, is it?"

"It must be: vampires don't exist!"

"How can it be a fake? Look at this gun: it's real. These are real stakes. This is a real crucifix. Every item in this box exists, and this isn't new. This stuff looks ancient."

"'_Looks'," _Tintin pointed out. "It looks old, but a clever person can make clever fakes. And besides, it can't be real: silver being used against vampires isn't a real thing. Silver is used against werewolves. The only place it's used against vampires is that ridiculous TV show, _True Blood." _

"That's not true," the Captain replied quickly. "There was a famous film with Peter Cushing, years ago – I saw it when I was a teenager – and he shoots the vampire dead with a silver bullet from his Colt."

Tintin rolled his eyes. "Oh, a film. It must be true then."

"Oh look: I proved you wrong and you answer with a smart remark. It's refreshing to know that some things never change."

"Ok, so killing vampires with silver goes back to the seventies," Tintin said, ignoring the Captain's remark. "That still doesn't prove that this box is older than that. All we've done is date it to the seventies."

"It goes back a lot further than that. Go and read _Dracula. _It's in that for a start."

"I don't remember that being in _Dracula._"

"Not the film you saw, maybe, but it's in the book."

"Touché."

"What were you doing down there anyway?" the Captain asked. He narrowed his eyes at the teenager. "Doctor Paramour said to stay out of there until he got here."

"That's a bit suspicious," Tintin said promptly. "That means he can go down there, on his own, and plant evidence. And because we didn't go down this morning, in the light of day and with a better torch, we can't say 'they weren't there this morning'."

"So you thought you'd go down there and make sure he can't plant any fake evidence?" The Captain shook the silver musket gun at him. "It's a good job you did, eh? You never would have found this if you hadn't."

"It's a fake!"

"How the hell can it be a fake! Look at it! It's right here!"

"It's an old gun made up to look a bit more… horror-movie-ish," Tintin snapped. "A crucifix that looks like it came out of a charity shop or some old religious woman's personal affects. Five bits of wood that are labelled 'stakes'. I could make something like this!"

"In this box? This antique box? With careful lining and compartments for everything? Look at it all: it's not just 'old stuff'. It looks like it belongs in this box. It doesn't look like a mish-mash of junk just bunged in together. Someone spent a lot of time over this box."

"Ok, so if I was better at faking antiques I could make something like this," Tintin agreed. "But just because it looks hand-made and old doesn't mean that it _is _old. It probably is hand-made though," he added thoughtfully. "But who on earth would have the time to hand-make something like this?"

"Someone who had pressing need of its use?"

"More like a horror-film fan with time on his hands."

"So some vampire fanboy with too much time on his hands waited until someone dug up an old crypt on our land, so he could sneak into our house and hide this in our cellar?" the Captain asked flatly. "And on top of that, he can unlock locked doors, make doors open on their own all night, and sneak in and out without us seeing him even though we're sleeping right outside the only door into the cellar?"

Tintin shrugged. "It could happen," he said lamely.

"Oh, you!" The Captain scoffed and waved his hands. "You see mysteries everywhere! You're so intent on seeing bad people all over the place that the obvious explanation gets overlooked!"

"The obvious explanation being what?" Tintin snapped. "The ghost of a long-dead vampire rising from his crypt to come and open doors for a laugh? Yeah, that's plausible, for sure."

"It's a damn sight more plausible than some random film buff spending ages making this just to sneak in and hide it here, on the off chance that we'd unearth that old crypt. Nobody knew that crypt was there!"

"That's not true: the research students are going through the library carefully to find out if there's any historical record for it."

"Who the hell cares about history! Nobody _now _knew it was there."

"But if there's a historical record of it," Tintin insisted, "then somebody _could _have known it was there."

"But how would they have known that Professor Fort would be digging up that very field?" the Captain asked.

"Because it's been on the university's website for the last six months?"

The Captain rolled his eyes. "You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Only because there _is _an answer for everything! A mundane, _perfectly normal _answer for everything."

The Captain tutted and folded his arms, annoyed. "Oh, go on, will you? Don't act like this when Doctor Paradigm gets here. I don't want you scaring him away with your scepticism."

Tintin raised an eyebrow. "If by that you're asking am I going to challenge him, of course I'm not. I'm simply going to ask questions."

"No. I forbid it." The Captain pursed his lips and waited for the storm.

"You forbid it?" Tintin stared at him, incredulous. "You're _forbidding _me from asking a so-called 'expert' questions about his field of study?"

"Don't go making him out to be an idiot, is what I'm saying."

"It's not my fault if he can't answer questions!"

"You'll do your damnedest to make sure he can't answer those questions! Now I'm telling you: leave him alone. Let him do his thing and bless the house or whatever, and let that be an end to it."

"Fine!" Tintin snapped. "I hope he charges you an arm and a leg you realise that there's _no such thing as vampires!" _He got up and left the room, allowing Snowy to follow him.

The Captain shook his head and started putting the vampire hunting kit back in its box. He shouldn't have done that. It would have absolutely no effect whatsoever. The last time he had forbidden Tintin from doing something they'd ended up in Tibet, and he still wasn't sure how the hell that had happened.

**x**

Tintin paused on the stairs, and thought about it. Sulking or getting angry wasn't going to do anything. No, he had to approach this like any other investigation: follow the evidence and find out where money comes into it. That's what a good reporter would do, and he was, after all, one of the best.

He needed to see the research students.

* * *

* actual script from a Blomberg Vampire Killing Kit_ [FT288]_


	12. 4: The Séance

_**4: The Séance**_

Doctor Paduraru examined the kit carefully. The Captain hovered around anxiously as one of the doctor's experts – a large, older woman in a nice coat and a conservative trouser suit – lit sage and started waving it around the room. She was accompanied by a small, worried looking man that looked like an accountant, who held an over-large book covered with dark-blue leather. He was chanting a prayer over and over, calling down blessings on everyone in the house. Eventually, the woman and the sage wandered away to continue blessing the house (which the doctor said was completely free, because no good paranormal expert would consider doing an investigation in a house that wasn't properly blessed first, so in your face Tintin), and the worried little man went with her.

"Earnst Blomberg," Doctor Paduraru said. The Captain stopped watching the other experts and turned his attention back to the doctor. "I've heard of him," Paduraru continued. He took his spectacles off his nose and let them dangle on the long, thin chain that kept them around his neck. "His kits are considered to be the originals, if you will. There are others, of course, made by other people, but they are inferior to the great Blomberg. *tssss-huff* Ha-ha."

"He's a real person?" the Captain asked worriedly.

"Oh yes, he's real. As is Piomdeur, who made the gun. Others came after them, naturally, but they stinted on the quality, and few achieved the hard-wearing substance of the original. It's usually Blomberg's kits that end up in the auction rooms. The others either don't survive, or aren't in a sale-able condition these days."

"Auction rooms?"

"Of course!" Doctor Paduraru smiled broadly. "These days, they're considered nothing more than a bit of interesting historic memorabilia, like old battle-field surgical equipment, or apothecary kits. It's a niche market of course – one has to be a _true _collector to spend that much money on any sort of antique – but it does exist. There are some of us that recognise the skill and dedication Blomberg and Piomdeur put into their kits, while others simply enjoy owning unusual items with no idea to their intended purpose. *tssss-huff* Ha-ha."

"So it's a sort of novelty thing?" The Captain started to relax. "It's not really for killing vampires, then?"

"Oh it works," Doctor Paduraru said firmly. "These days they are considered a novelty, because technology has improved. But back then, on the front lines of the fight against vampires, this was considered cutting edge. This is a good, working set, Captain. This was probably used to kill vampires."

**x**

In the library, Tintin found the book he needed. It was only a small note, but it was there: _Francois du Sart-Mulan, founder of Moulinsart town and builder of the original Marlinspike Hall, buried in a single crypt on his land. _

He stuck a small piece of paper into the page and handed it over to one of the research students, an American youth named Terrance. "Keep that safe," he said absently, pulling out another book from the same time period. He was determined to find out whether that crypt was as lost to time as Doctor Paduraru seemed to think.

**x**

Downstairs, they had drawn the curtains in the front sitting room, the one where the Captain preferred to have his breakfast, and were sitting around the table side-by-side. They weren't joining hands though – Doctor Paduraru had assured the Captain that this wasn't necessary – although their hands were flat on the table top, with their fingers spread. The little finger of each person's hand touched the little fingers of those on either side of him. This, Doctor Paduraru explained, allowed them to draw on the natural energies of the living while keeping everyone's hands where he could see them. He wanted to make sure that nobody could tilt the table or knock on it, which was sensible the Captain thought. In fact, it was far more sensible than Tintin was making out.

The large woman, who had been introduced to the Captain as Nefertari Witherball, started to hum quietly. The Captain opened his eyes and risked a look around. Whatever the woman – Mrs Witherball – was doing, nobody else seemed to be alarmed by it. They all looked content and at peace (except for the nervous little man, who – it turned out – was in fact an accountant. He just looked nervous and, somehow, even smaller than before. This wasn't helped by the fact that he was sitting beside Mrs Witherball: the Grand Hall looked small and nervous next to her), as though they were actually able to empty their minds of the 'mundane', like Doctor Paduraru had told them to.

Mrs Witherball grunted and relaxed, her head sinking down onto her chest. She remained in this state for about three minutes.

"Is this normal?" the Captain whispered.

"Perfectly," Doctor Paduraru assured him. "She's entering a trance state."

"Oh. Right. She's not… asleep, is she?" Mrs Witherball had just given a very realistic snore.

"No, no: she's allowing her spirit guide, Runs With A Feather, to inhabit her body. It is he who will conduct the séance."

"Runs With A Feather?"

"He's a Native American. Sort of."

Mrs Witherball interrupted the conversation at that moment. Her head rose and she stared at them, her mouth drawn into a tight line. Her womanly features had changed subtly. She looked more manly; stoic. Almost like a chieftain of a tribe of Indians, if it wasn't for the bright red jacket and the hat with flowers on it.

"I have come to your Circle," Mrs Witherball said in a ponderous, deep voice. It was flavoured slightly with a strange, almost halting accent. The Captain assumed it was Runs With A Feather's voice. "Blessings be on this group."

"And on you, Mighty Runs With A Feather," Doctor Paduraru said politely. "Are you able to talk to us now?"

"I am. The vessel is in her Trance."

"Good, good. Tell me, Runs With A Feather, what impressions are you getting from this house?"

"This house is old. Many moons ago it was built, by a man with the heart of a jackal."

"What was his name?"

"Sart-Mulan."

The Captain made a little impressed noise under his breath: there was no way a long-dead Indian from America could have known _that_.

"Is he with you in Spirit?"

"No, he is trapped here on this earthly plane."

"Why?"

"Because of his crimes. He entered into a deal with the devil."

The door to the sitting room opened and Tintin crept in quietly. The Captain quickly excused himself, got up, and hurried over. "Out!" he hissed.

"Oh come on!" Tintin whispered. "I've never seen a séance done before!"

"Get out!"

"I won't ask anything, I promise. I'll just sit and watch quietly."

"No! Get out!"

"Great Heart must stay," said the voice of Runs With A Feather. The body of Mrs Witherball stood up slowly, and seemed to tower over the rest of them in the dim, flickering candlelight. She crossed her arms over her chest and stood like a proud warrior. Tintin and the Captain exchanged a look.

"Great Heart?" Tintin asked.

"The name you have been given by the Holy Men. Your true name."

"I know, but how do _you _know?"

"I know all."

"What's 15.3% of 59.66?"

"Stop that!" The Captain dug a finger into Tintin's side.

"You ask of the mundane," Runs With A Feather said, a touch of disdain in his voice. "You have seen much, yet still you doubt."

"Just call me Doubting Thomas," Tintin said. The people at the table shifted along slightly, clearing a space for the chair he was bringing over. He sat down beside the Captain's empty chair and regarded Runs With A Feather.

"Not even Thomas doubts as much as you do," Runs With A Feather replied as he, too, took his seat.

"You know of Doubting Thomas?" Tintin asked as the Captain sat down beside him with a quiet groan of despair.

"He is with me, in Spirit."

"Do you mean Heaven? He's a Catholic saint, after all."

"He is in Spirit."

"So how do you reconcile your afterlife with a religion that came thousands of years after your own beliefs were set in stone, so to speak? You are meant to be Native American, I take it."

"I am of the Tribes," Runs With A Feather said icily. "And the 'afterlife' is Spirit, for all religions."

"So the Catholics and the Native Americans are all wrong?"

"Misguided."

"So there's only one afterlife for everyone, regardless of their spiritual beliefs? That's very interesting. Tell me about it." Tintin leaned forward, towards Runs With A Feather, and looked interested.

"These are mundane matters," Runs With A Feather said dismissively.

"Actually, they're important theological questions. It's not often I get the chance to interview a dead person. What part of America did your tribe live in, and which tribe did you belong to?"

"We are all one people."

"Native Americans? No they weren't. There were many disputes between the different tribes: most of them hated each other."

"We are all born of Mother Goddess."

"Hmm. That's also interesting: most Native American tribal legends say that their creator was a man. Except the Inuit," he added helpfully.

"Then you know my tribe."

"Ah, so you're from Maine?"

"We called it a different name."

"What did you call it?"

"We called it 'The Land'."

"That is _really _interesting!" Tintin sat back, amused. "This really challenges a lot of long-held beliefs about Native Americans."

"There is much about us that you white people cannot understand or know," Runs With A Feather said proudly.

"Obviously! Like, for example, the small fact that the American Inuit are based in Alaska, while the Maine Natives were Algonquian. And they didn't have a name for that land, because it wasn't a sacred site. Fascinating!" He shook his head in mock-wonder. "I guess every single history book, and the tribes themselves, are completely wrong while you, the one person saying something different with no proof to back it up, must be absolutely correct and we should all believe you on blind faith alone."

"Do you remember when I said I didn't want you asking questions?" the Captain murmured.

"Yes?"

"You're doing it now."

"I'm terribly sorry," Tintin apologised to the rest of the table, who were staring at him in barely-concealed irritation. "I'll be quiet now."

"Thank you," the Captain said stiffly.

"I think I've proved my point."

"Quite. Er, Mrs Witherball?" The Captain paused while Tintin choked back a laugh.

"The vessel is still in a Trance," Runs With A Feather said through gritted teeth.

"Right. Er, Runs With A Feather, would you like to continue?"

"Not really, no." Mrs Witherball's head sank back onto her chest as Runs With A Feather departed this earthly realm. She gave a loud snort and her head shot up. "Oh dear!" she said in a distressed tone of voice, "I've never seen him that upset before. Poor Albie!"

"Albie?" Tintin asked.

"Yes. My Spirit Guide. The poor dear is just an elderly French man that died during World War Two, but he does like to pretend he was once a Native American. He gets quite stroppy if you mention it."

"I probably should have said this before," Doctor Paduraru interrupted. "We're quite used to Albie, and we don't really notice it any more."

Tintin had to smother his laughter with his hand. He'd either just had a conversation with a contrary ghost with a personality disorder, or Mrs Witherball and Doctor Paduraru were experts at covering up their fraudulent ineptitude.

"Shall we try again, dears?" Mrs Witherball smiled around at the group. "I could sense Lady Alice in the background: perhaps she'll come forward this time?"

The paranormal experts groaned. "Not her!" The nervous little man (who was called Mr Dudeldop) looked distressed at the thought. "She's horrid!"

"Isn't there anyone else?" Even Doctor Paduraru looked discomfited at the thought of speaking to Lady Alice, whoever she was.

"We have to take what we can get, dear," Mrs Witherball said reproachfully. She laid her hands flat on the table again and the circle was joined once more. They sank back into silence, which was broken after a short while by Mrs Witherball humming as she fell back into her 'trance'. Similarly confused, as the Captain had been, Tintin looked around.

Mrs Witherball was staring at him with the shrewdest look he'd ever encountered. He stared back, slightly alarmed. "Great Heart?" she said. "My arse!" This time, Mrs Witherball's voice had completely changed. She spoke with a perfect English accent that sounded like the slightly high-brow, querulous voice of an old aristocratic woman. Even her face had changed. She had more wrinkles and an old-looking mouth now, and her eyes were as sharp as diamonds.

"Lady Alice?" Doctor Paduraru said with a sigh. "Blessings be on you."

"Fuck off, you old fraud. How are you planning on stealing Ol' Drunky's millions?" She jerked her head at the Captain.

"I beg your pardon?" the Captain said, astonished.

"Oh, get off your high horse: you're already half-cut and it's only two o'clock in the afternoon!"

"I knew it!" Tintin said.

"And you!" Lady Alice regarded him imperiously. "Great Heart? More like Nosy Nellie! Always poking your nose it, aren't you? But you get the job done, oh yes! You know how to make those people sweat, don't you?" She winked at him nastily.

"I help people," Tintin said lamely.

"My arse, you do! I saw what you did in South America. You didn't make anyone's life any better. They still live in squalor and poverty. And Tibet, your greatest 'achievement'? You did bugger all! It's still ruled by the Chinese, isn't it? You didn't help there at all."

"It's a complex political situation…"

"Like hell it is! If it had oil, everyone would have marched in there by now and declared it a free nation! It's a small tract of land ruled by cruel masters that nobody gives a shit about because it's got nothing worth stealing. In my day, we wouldn't have let those yellow bastards get within an inch of it. Mind you, that was back when men were men" –

"I think we've heard enough about Lady Alice's political opinions," Doctor Paduraru said loudly. "Why don't we get back to the matter at hand, yes?"

"Speaking of men," Lady Alice continued, ignoring Doctor Paduraru's entreaty, "where's the little queen?" She looked around, her face brightening when she saw Mr Dudeldop beside her. He was trying to cringe away while maintaining contact with Mrs Witherball's little finger. "There he is! And how are you, dear? Have you found yourself a nice woman yet?" She laughed uproariously as Mr Dudeldop's face went bright red. "You should get yourself a nice beard," she added, and laughed again.

"So what's this?" Tintin asked, amused. "Is this the nasty part of herself that Mrs Witherball keeps hidden away? The part that says all the things she wants to say, which her politeness stops her from saying?"

"Oh, hark at Great Arse!" Lady Alice threw her hands up in mock surrender. "You're a one to talk! You should go upstairs and have a look in the bottom of his wardrobe, Drunky," she said to the Captain.

"Ugh, I'm not going to find weird porn, am I?" the Captain muttered.

"No, just his cowboy hat," Lady Alice said smugly.

Tintin froze, his face clearly showing his shock. He _did _have a Stetson upstairs, in the back of his wardrobe. He knew it was there, without having to check, because every now and again he, well, he… he…

"He puts it on whenever he feels depressed," Lady Alice said viciously, "and looks at himself in the mirror. Poses, he does, like Clint Eastwood."

The Captain smothered a snort of laughter.

"I," Tintin began, but trailed away, embarrassed and shocked at her knowledge.

"Like he's got a gun. Says lines from films, he does."

"If you're quite finished, Lady Alice," Doctor Paduraru said witheringly.

"_You talkin' to me?" _

"Ugh, Lady Alice, _please!" _

"_I don't see nobody else here. You must be talkin' to me."_

"That's from _Taxi Driver," _Tintin said, annoyed. His face felt hot and he knew he was blushing. He just hoped that nobody could see him clearly in the candlelight. "Clint Eastwood isn't even in that one!"

"You should know, you little pervert."

"Lady Alice!" Doctor Paduraru wailed.

"Oh, what do you want?" she snapped at him. "It's not often I get the chance to re-enter this realm. I want to use this opportunity."

"We're not interested in your malicious, nasty tricks" –

"I don't want to use my time for that, you stupid man! I want to talk to him!" She pointed at Tintin. "I need him to do some investigating."

"Were you murdered or something?" Tintin asked. "I mean, I can see why someone want would kill you."

"Not at all: I lived to 104!" she said proudly. "But there was a dispute after I died, that I want you to investigate and put right."

"Ok…" Despite himself, Tintin was getting interested. Whoever or whatever Lady Alice was, she _was _amusing. Just not when you were on the receiving end of her tongue.

"I left my silver teapot to our Margaret, but I think that awful woman Tara took it. I promised that to Margaret, I did. I said to her, I said; _'When I go, that silver teapot is yours, dear', _and she'd be heartbroken if that awful Tara got it."

"Nobody gives a damn about your squabbling relatives!" Doctor Paduraru snapped. "We want to know about Francois du Sart-Mulan!"

"Oh, you old spoil-sport! _Fine. _What do you want to know?"

"We want to know details about his life."

"He was born, he lived, he died," she replied flippantly. "By Christ, this is boring. Lend me your hip flask, Drunky." She held her hand out to the Captain and snapped her fingers under his nose.

"We were looking for rather more specific details, Lady Alice. _No! Don't give her that flask!"_

"Sorry," the Captain said, quickly taking it back.

"Well the hell with you lot, anyway," said Lady Alice angrily. Mrs Witherball's head fell forward and she started to snore loudly. In a few seconds she returned to normal and looked around at them, smiling in a dazed sort of way. "Any luck that time, dearies?"


	13. 5: Paranormal Activity

_**5: Paranormal Activity**_

It was hard to hear anything over the hubbub, but somehow Professor Fort made himself heard. "Could I have a moment of your time, my dear Captain?"

Captain Haddock's head reared above the noisy crowd as he stood on a chair to find out who was talking to him. He spotted the Professor in the doorway, gave him a thumbs up and disappeared from sight. The Professor could clearly chart the Captain's advance, as shouts of surprise rose from the crowd and, eventually, two people were simply pushed gently out of the way.

"Evening, Professor," the Captain said genially when he finally made his way over. "Anything up?"

"I could ask you the same, my dear boy." Professor Fort examined the scene in the kitchen. The caterers were trying to move the uncooked food into the fridges, but Nestor was trying to bar their way while simultaneously trying to fend Mrs Witherball, who had reverted back to Runs With A Feather, off the roast chicken that was currently on the counter for cooling. Tintin and Mr Dudeldop were arguing happily amongst themselves while the latter waved around strange mechanical instruments. Doctor Paduraru tried to calm everyone down and in one corner, a bemused-looking delivery driver from Cutts the Butcher was wafting sage around the nooks and crannies.

"Oh, don't mind them: they're all insane. How are you?" The Captain addressed the Professor earnestly, turning his back to the ruckus and pretending it didn't exist.

"Er, fine, my dear boy. I just wanted to let you know that we're clearing off now. We've decided to take lodgings in the B&B on the edge of the village."

"Oh? You're not camping in the field then? You're best off, really. It's a bit wet for camping."

"My dear Captain Haddock," the Professor said firmly, "as I have said before, not all archaeological digs take place in exotic, warm climes. Some of them are mundane and boring and take place at home. Every single site of historical origin, regardless of how unexciting and humdrum they are, must be documented precisely for the sake of posterity. Even if there are a thousand medieval cooking sites, all of them exactly the same, it is important."

The Captain thought about this for a second. "How?" he said at last.

The Professor stared at him, as though he was an idiot. "Because," he said slowly, "it tells us how they cooked, and what tools and methods they used. And it proves that, no matter how advanced or under-developed we think people in different regions were, they were exactly the same as everyone else."

"And why's that important?"

Professor Fort sighed. "Never mind. It's a long and exhaustive study, and I have no intention of boring the arse off you. I have a bus full of sweaty, dirty students, most of whom seem to be complaining of trench foot, who I have to guide to the B&B, and when that's done I'm off to the pub. We got no sleep last night. Those locals are a bit rowdy, aren't they? One does hear stories of city-dwellers moving to the country and being driven off by bumpkins, but it's rare that one finds credence to the rumours. That is to say, we didn't appreciate it in the slightest."

The Captain tried to translate the professor's complaint. He had a feeling it was a bit of an insult. He shook his head impatiently. "What?" he said at last.

"Oh, it's unimportant." The Professor waved his hand dismissively. "Just the local youths having a laugh, I suspect. Nothing more dangerous than strange noises and throwing stones at the tents for a jape or perhaps a joke, but it kept us awake for most of the night."

"What youths?" the Captain asked suspiciously. "Did you get a good look at them?"

"No, we saw nobody: they cloaked themselves in the darkness around us, and hid among the brush."

"So you didn't see where they came from? Because you can't get onto my land over there, unless you come in the front gate. The only other way is over the river. I don't like the sound of rowdy youths coming onto my land. What time was this at?"

"It started once we had all retired. About half past the eleven, I would guess."

"Right." The Captain clapped his hands together smartly, once. "It takes about three quarters of an hour to walk from the gate to that field. Come on: we'll check the security cameras and find out who's been playing silly buggers. With any luck we'll solve the mystery of who's been playing about in my house, too, and Doctor Paranormal can go home."

"Doctor Paduraru?" Professor Fort screwed up his face. "That old fraud? He's still here?"

"I'm right here," said Doctor Paduraru, stepping out of the crowd. The two men sized each other up.

"It's good to see you," Doctor Paduraru said politely.

"It's a shame I can't say the same thing," Fort said dryly.

"It's a shame you can't see the truth."

_"Ring forts were not made by aliens!"_ Professor Fort roared. Immediately, the rest of the room stopped arguing amongst themselves and stared at him, aghast at his making so much noise and fuss. He looked around, embarrassed, and cleared his throat. "If you'll all excuse me. I have some business with the Captain."

"Aye," the Captain said seriously. "I need to go and check the security cameras."

"Security cameras?" Doctor Paduraru asked.

"Oh, yeah. They're all over the estate. There's a lot of wildlife around here but it's all protected. The cameras discourage poachers. Actually," the Captain's face brightened, "this might interest you, Doctor Paraplegic: Professor Fort says someone was throwing stones at his campers last night, and making strange noises. They were up sleeping next to that crypt."

Paduraru looked at the Professor with interest. "And did you happen to see who did it?"

"No," Professor Fort said through gritted teeth. "But I've just had a brain-wave about who it could have been. Where were you last night?"

Doctor Paduraru rolled his eyes. "I was at home," he said loudly. "Believe it or not, Fort, you're not the centre of the universe!"

"I never claimed to be! But you have a habit of popping up in unexpected places and getting on my bloody nerves!"

"Now then, gentlemen, let's calm down," the Captain said quickly.

Paduraru closed his mouth quickly and composed himself. He made a neat, stiff bow to the Captain. "If you don't mind, I'll go out and take the air. Until Professor Fort has left, at least. Do you mind if I do a bit of a preliminary investigation of the immediate area surrounding the house?"

"Whatever you feel is best," the Captain agreed.

"Thank you, Captain. And good evening, Professor."

Professor Fort nodded curtly and watched as Doctor Paduraru left the house via the back door, which led off from the kitchen to the back of the house.

"Right. We'll just go and check the security cameras." The Captain held his hand out, showing Professor Fort out of the kitchen.

"Do you mind if I come?" Tintin asked.

"No," the Captain replied. He ushered Professor Fort along the back corridor to the room that held the manor's extensive security system. As well as the alarms there were motion sensors and cameras throughout the grounds, focusing mainly on the river (where the trout spawned and the old pike lived) and the woodlands (where the small colonies of wild animals made their homes). Tintin was passionate about conservation, while the Captain was passionate about getting Tintin to shut up about it. This made them both eager to help preserve the wildlife on their land.

There were two cameras at the gates: one outside that showed who was trying to access the gate, and one inside to show who _had _accessed the gate. The Captain hit a few buttons and the wall of monitors flickered as two were shut off from the live feed. Seconds later, they flared back into life, looking a lot lighter than the rest of the monitors.

"Yesterday morning," the Captain said under his breath. "Hang on a sec." He pressed another button and the two monitors flickered again as they started to fast-forward through the day. Around them, the silent screens showed the current surroundings of Marlinspike Hall. The avenue was quiet; a bird hopped around the wet mulch of the forest floor, picking up worms; the river gurgled noiselessly, pushed on by the wind that had sprung up over the course of the afternoon; the plastic graveyard stood in the gloom of the forest, lit only by shafts of grey, rain-soaked light that slanted in through the skeletal canopy of trees; and the marquee rippled and strained against its ties. The cellar was in near darkness already.

"There we go." The Captain pressed a button and the two central monitors flickered back into life, showing the darkened gates from either side. The one inside the gates was attached to a tree, and pointed firmly at the gates (which were closed). The outside camera moved from side to side, alternating to show either direction of the road from the village. "That's about a quarter to ten," the Captain continued. "We'll run quickly through it from here, to see if anyone came in that way." He pressed the fast-forward button again, and the picture sped up. The trees around the cameras moved faster than usual, almost disjointed and jerky. But the gates remained completely clear of people. When they reached 11:30pm, the Captain gave up.

"They didn't come in that way," he said quietly.

"Could they have come across the river?" Professor Fort offered.

"Maybe…"

"I don't think so," Tintin said suddenly. He was staring at the bottom left monitor. "The land at the back of that field, on the other side of the river, belongs to Farmer Eikel."

"And?" Professor Fort asked. "Are you opining that he wouldn't have done such a thing?"

"No, he wouldn't. And his son is grown up and left the area, so it wasn't him either. To be honest, I can't see anyone from the village trying to scare away campers. We get quite a lot of them around here. They don't cause any harm. Tell me, does it look like someone is standing in the middle of the cellar?"

"Don't be daft," the Captain said. He glanced at the monitor, stopped, and looked closer. He narrowed his eyes. "Actually, it does look like a darker shape in the middle. Right there…"

"What do we have in the cellar that could make a shape like that?"

"Nothing. I don't think there's anything, anyway."

"Neither do I, and I was down there this morning. I think I would have noticed something." Tintin got up. "Where's the torch?"

"It's moving, whatever it is," Professor Fort said. "Look!" His finger followed the black shadow as it started to move away, towards the wall that had the hole in its brickwork.

"Come on!" Tintin tore from the room, Snowy at his heels. The Captain followed after, begging the teenager to slow down and think rationally about going down into the dark place with the shadowy thing. Professor Fort couldn't help but sigh and go with them.

"I find it remarkable," he said, puffing and panting as he tried to keep up with them, "that Doctor Paduraru shows up at the same time as your 'haunting'."

"He weren't here when it happened, though," the Captain explained. They reached the cellar door. It was closed – locked firmly in accordance to Nestor's wishes. On the small end-table, which stood under a fancy, gilt-edged mirror a few feet away, was the torch. Tintin seized it and unlocked the cellar door quickly.

"Now let's just hang on for a second," the Captain started to say. Tintin simply opened the door and disappeared down the winding stairs. "While we prepare ourselves," the Captain said to empty air. He shrugged and followed Tintin down, with Professor Fort trailing afterwards.

Tintin slowed down on the steps, hating their steepness. They were narrower the closer they got to the central column. A person could easily misplace a footfall and stumble to grave injury. Snowy, on the other hand, was as surefooted as a mountain goat. By the time Tintin had reached the main chamber the shadow was gone, and the dog was barking madly. The noise echoed, and Tintin shone the light around, trying to find Snowy. It took a few seconds for him to realise that the dog had gone through the hole in the bricks. Ignoring the Captain's shouts, which were coming from half-way up the staircase, Tintin threw caution to the wind and ducked into the hole.

"Be quiet, Snowy," he hissed, and the dog quietened down at once, his excited barks replaced by a steady growl. He shone the light behind and ahead. There was nothing but junk behind him, but ahead was Snowy and that same patch of wall that caused so many problems. Tintin went to it, shushing Snowy again.

There was nobody there.

The area was a lot colder though, and Snowy's growls soon started up again. Tintin touched the wall – it wasn't colder than the rest of the stones. It was just the air around it that was colder…

_Interesting, _he thought to himself. _Very interesting. _

Behind him, there was a scuffle as the Captain crawled through after him. "There's nobody here," he called back, before the Captain could ask.

"Did you see where they went?" the Captain said.

"No. They were gone by the time I got here. Snowy's very interested by this patch of wall, though."

"Snowy's always interested in that patch of wall."

"I take it investigations are at an end, gentlemen?" Professor Fort called from the hole in the wall.

"For now," Tintin replied. He studied the wall one final time, trying to will it to give up its secrets, but it remained stationary and very wall-like. He shook his head and turned back. "What now?" he asked.

"I'm taking my charges to the B&B," Professor Fort said. "I would appreciate your torch, young man. Your cellar is extraordinarily dark."


	14. 6: Normal Activity

_**6: Normal Activity**_

When Professor Fort and the students were gone the paranormal group found Doctor Paduraru (he was outside, genuinely interested in Cuthbert's dowsing) and reconnoitred in the security room.

"You missed all the excitement," Mr Dudeldop was saying to Doctor Paduraru as he led him into the room. "They were reviewing the tapes from last night – for that other chap – and discovered that there was someone in the cellar!"

"Last night?" Doctor Paduraru's eyebrows shot up. "Well then, that's your culprit, Captain! Someone playing tricks on you all along!"

"No," the Captain said shortly, "there was someone in the cellar a few minutes ago. A dark shadow that walked off after a few minutes. We're just looking back over the video now, to see if we can figure out where the hell it went."

"He," Tintin insisted. "It's not an 'it', it's a he. He's a he, I mean. Oh, you know what I'm saying," he said crossly. "There is a person at work here."

"Let's see it then." Doctor Paduraru made himself comfortable in a black swivel chair. He was sitting just behind the Captain, who was at the keyboard that controlled the cameras and monitors, while Tintin crouched down beside him, his face barely inches from the cellar's monitor, which was paused at a particular point. The Captain hit the 'play' button.

On the screen the cellar appeared. It was enveloped in gloomy darkness. They waited, silent, as the seconds ticked by. Then, suddenly, there was a hint that the shadows had changed. A dark spot, darker than the gloom around it, moved slowly across the screen from the right. It drifted slowly into the centre of the room and stood there for a good few minutes. The paranormal group gasped and quickly started a whispered discussion about it; what it was and where it had come from and how to classify the manifestation. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the dark shape drifted away again.

"Wait for it," Tintin murmured.

The darkness in the cellar changed again. A smaller black spot dashed across the screen and Mrs Witherball from the paranormal team shrieked in surprise. Then, they watched as Tintin charged into the picture with his torch held high, following the smaller dark shape which was revealed to be Snowy. They too tore off to the right side of the screen, disappearing from view quickly, followed closely by the Captain and Professor Fort.

"So whatever it was," the Captain said slowly as the rest of the drama played out off screen, "it came from that hidden corridor, and it went back there too."

"It's something to do with that wall," Tintin insisted. "Snowy's _always_ had a problem with that wall. And it feels _colder _there, somehow."

"Cold spots are commonly associated with hauntings," Doctor Paduraru said speculatively. "When did you first notice that cold spot?"

"Almost as soon as the Captain moved in," Tintin replied. "We went over the cellar with an antiques dealer to find out what was worth money and what was junk. Everything expensive was moved out of that part and into the vault."

"Vault?" Mr Dudeldop said quickly.

Tintin shook his head. "It's just a separate part of the cellar that has proper security doors. It was put in by the last owners of the house. But it's actually quite nice over there. Not too hot, not too cold."

"Temperature's regulated," the Captain offered. "There's a lot of paintings and things like that stored down there. Has to be done properly or they get destroyed and lose value."

"Of course," said Doctor Paduraru. "And tell me, does the cold spot on the other side of the cellar – _Aaaagh!"_

They stopped and stared at the monitor. As they talked the tape had continued to play. Silently, it had shown Tintin, the Captain, Snowy and Professor Fort re-crossing the expansive room and disappearing back up the stairs to the main house. Minutes had ticked by slowly, the room unchanged and enveloped in dark shadows. Then, suddenly, a white hand had appeared from nowhere and covered the lens of the camera. Now, the screen played static.

"What was that?" Tintin asked.

"I don't know," the Captain replied, his voice strangely calm. "But I think I need to change my underpants."

"Me too," said Doctor Paduraru in a shaky voice. "Tell me, Mrs Witherball: if we held another séance, in the cellar this time, would you be agreeable?"

"No," she said faintly. "I think I'll just sit this one out."

"We could always try a Ouija board," Mr Dudeldop offered.

**x**

As the last of the afternoon light bled from the sky, the evening dipped and became early night, skipping dusk and heading straight for the jugular as it were. The paranormal team dined at the hall, and it was pleasant (although Runs With A Feather did insist on carving the chicken, to the Captain's amusement) until Tintin let Lady Alice find out about _Fifty Shades of Grey._ The evening sort of disintegrated at that point, and nobody was in the mood for dessert after Lady Alice's retelling of her dalliance with a very famous British actor who was now in his seventies (and it was completely unbelievable, Tintin thought, that James Bond would ever be interested in such a horrible person as Lady Alice. Although, as she put it "It wasn't my mind he was after, young man, and he could do wonderful things with a courgette.").

As the paranormal group started to set up the Ouija board, the Captain and Nestor brought standing lamps down to the cellar and tried to figure out where to set them up. The electrical extension cords were set up, leading down the stairs from the kitchens, and soon the cellar was lighted. It wasn't very well lit, it had to be said, but there was light. They were interrupted by a loud knocking at the front door.

Tintin opened it. A large man in oil-stained overalls and with blackened hands stood on the doorstep. "Yes?" Tintin asked warily.

"'Addock," the man said in a thick accent.

"He's busy. Can I help you?"

"Fair ground," the man grunted. He waved his hand to the left and Tintin leaned out and looked around. Three large vans were idling in the driveway: everyone had simply assumed it was thunder. It was just the sort of ominous day for thunder. On the backs of the vans, under tarpaulin on long trailers, were strange bulky shapes.

"Great!" Tintin's eyes lit up at once. "Hey, Captain!" He turned and went back into the house, and shouted down to the cellar. "Hey, the rides have come! For the Halloween fair!"

"Oh for crying out loud!" the Captain shouted back. "This late? It's dark out! Is it raining?"

"No, it's stopped for once! Hey, are they getting set up tonight?"

"Yes." There came the sound of feet against stone and the Captain appeared in the stairwell. "But no, you can't ride 'em now."

"Oh, please!"

"No! Grow up!"

"But I'm 16! You're always saying I should act my age."

"Only when you want to go off and get yourself killed! No." He shook his head, his face set firmly. "With all the spooky goings-on around here, I don't want you on them rides on your own. I'd never forgive myself if" –

"Something happened to me?" Tintin finished, touched at the Captain's show of emotion.

"No, if something happened to them machines and I have to pay for them. They cost a bloody fortune!"

Tintin rolled his eyes.

"Well, they do," the Captain said defensively. "Did you see how much it costs to rent 'em? The deposit alone was more than your life's worth."

"Thanks, Captain."

"Don't mention it. Go and bring the car round, will you? I'll have to bring the men down to the site, so they can set the rides up."

"I'll show them, if you like?" Tintin offered.

"You? Drive my car?" The Captain burst out laughing. "I can always rely on you to cheer me up."

"And thanks for that too, Captain."


	15. 7: Yes, Yes!

**Warning: long-ass chapter ahead. Go and make a cup of tea. **

* * *

_**7: Yes, Yes!**_

The paranormal group had set up the Ouija table in the cellar, and were conducting a mini survey of the area. They were recording heat and cold spots, measuring temperatures, checking for loose rocks on the ground or in the ceiling; anything that could make a noise that could be mistakenly attributed to the paranormal during the Ouija – and setting up a camera that pointed towards the wall that Snowy hated. Mr Dudeldop wandered around with a heat-sensor camera, making sure that nothing lurked in the corners.

Nestor was in the kitchens, cleaning everything before the caterers showed up the next day. He was listening to his little radio and muttering under his breath. The Captain was gone to the little fair-ground site with the lorries, and from his bedroom window Tintin could already see the top of the mini Ferris wheel. It was stationary, the small, iron-enclosed seats at the top swayed in the brisk wind.

Now, Tintin was making his way around the outside of the house. Other than the wind and the sound of the hoot-owls, the only noise was the gravel crunching under his feet, and the softer crunch under Snowy's paws. The dog snuffled ahead, nose down and tail wagging gently. He was completely at ease, and not at all bothered by anything. He seemed to have picked up a scent, but he wasn't wary of it at all. If anything, he had probably picked up the scent of the cat, Mistress Cat-Pants (or 'Molly', as everyone other than the Captain called her). She usually made herself scarce when there were visitors to the house. She was an expensive pedigree used to living in the lap of luxury. Her only real problem was that she didn't like people, although she did tolerate Tintin when she absolutely had to (like when she wanted to be petted, or fed).

He reached the steps down. They were curious: they went down to the basement level, and led to a tunnel-like, narrow walk that ran the length of that side of the house. It was almost like a moat, but it was filled with nothing more than a few drifts of autumnal leaves that clung damply to the edges and corners. In days gone by, there had been doors down here for tradesmen and workers because they weren't allowed to call to the front door of grand houses like this, but they were long-since bricked up and left abandoned when the cellar had been converted into a storeroom and the kitchens had been refurbished and moved up a storey He continued around, trying to see if there were any signs of people coming and going this way, but all of the newer brickwork that covered the old doorways was intact. The only thing that looked even remotely disturbed was a tall trellis of ivy at the side of the house, underneath one of the kitchen windows. Tintin tugged on it experimentally, but it came away from the wall easily. Nobody was climbing up it to get to the window, that was for sure. There was no way it would support anyone's weight: Nestor had been attacking the ivy with plant killer because the roots got into the foundations and could cause a lot of expensive problems.

He shook his head and climbed the steps back up to the grounds. Whistling for Snowy, he made his way back to the front of the house in time to see the Captain's car pull up. The man himself got out and waited for Tintin to catch up. He shook his head at the boy. "If it ain't one thing, it's the other," he said with a sigh.

"What's up now?" Tintin asked.

"The marquee got pulled down," the Captain said with a scowl. There was a loud rumble as, a second later, the vans that had delivered the mechanical rides pulled out from behind the trees and turned back into the driveway. They tooted their horns and continued to drive away. "I had to get that lot to help me put it back up," the Captain added as he waved the vans away.

"How'd the marquee get pulled down?" Tintin asked with a frown.

"I dunno." The Captain shrugged. "I suppose it was the wind."

"Hmm."

"What? You think the spook of a vampire did it?" the Captain asked, amused.

Tintin rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. It's not a spook: there's nothing ghostly going on here."

"As you say." The Captain headed back up the steps to the house, with Tintin at his heels.

"You don't honestly believe it, do you?"

"I think there's stranger things in heaven and earth, Horatio."

"I don't think that's the quote."

"I think it's close enough. Come on: let's get this party started."

**x**

The cellar was in almost-darkness. The lights were switched off to provide a more atmospheric ambiance that a vampire ghost would find appealing. The only light came from the two handsome candlesticks the Captain had brought down. They were silver and very expensive, and had the added bonus that if anything _did _happen they were bloody heavy and could knock a grown man out if they were used as a weapon.

"Captain Haddock, in the cellar, with the candlestick, eh?" he quipped as he sat down next to Tintin. Snowy was on the teenager's lap, looking around with mild disinterest. Nobody had fed him any chicken, nor did it look likely that they would. Therefore, they weren't important in the grand scheme of his doggy life.

"Hands on the table, please," Doctor Paduraru said. "Palms flat, fingers spread. Tintin, could you try to tip the table, please?"

Tintin raised an eyebrow but did as instructed, applying force against the table to see if it would wobble. It didn't wobble, but it did slide against the stone floor with an agonizing creak that went through them like nails on a chalkboard. It was a heavy table and it wasn't easy to move. "Good enough?" he asked.

"Are you happy that it would take a lot of effort for someone to play silly buggers?"

Tintin shrugged. "I suppose."

"And do you think you would notice if one of us was trying to move the table?"

"I guess so, yes."

"Then we shall begin."

The Ouija board was a standard, old-fashioned model; the type sold as a novelty game in the 70s and available in almost every charity or second-hand shop in almost every country in the world. It was old and well-worn, with the edges dogged and peeling from use. Doctor Paduraru, Mrs Witherball, Tintin, and the Captain were the only ones with their fingers on the planchette. Mr Dudeldop was leaning back, his hands face down on the table.

Doctor Paduraru cleared his throat. "Are there any spirits here who wish to talk to us?"

Silence. The planchette stayed still.

"Are there any spirits with us now? Come forward!"

The Captain glanced nervously around at the shadows, but still nothing happened.

"Come forward, spirits! Use our energy if you need to!"

"What?" the Captain asked worriedly. "What do you mean by that?"

"Spirit is weak in the earthly realm," Mr Dudeldop supplied in a whisper. "They can draw on our energy to give them the strength to move the planchette."

"Does it… does it hurt?"

"No, we won't feel a single thing."

"Mrs Witherball, are you sensing anything?" Doctor Paduraru asked.

The medium had cocked her head. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was pursed. "There's something," she said slowly, "but I can't be sure who or what it is yet. It's on the very edge. It's nervous."

"Come forward!" Doctor Paduraru said, softening his voice. "We won't hurt you, spirit. We just want to ask you some questions."

The planchette started to move. It whirled around in short, tight circles. Tintin quickly took his finger off and raised an eyebrow. It continued moving, although slower.

"It needs your energy," Mr Dudeldop hissed.

"I really doubt that," Tintin replied dryly. "If everyone took their fingers off, it would stop moving."

"That's because Spirit works _through _us. It needs us to be in contact with the planchette and the board."

"So we can move it ourselves?"

"Yes. _No! _You're channelling Spirit."

"Fine!" Doctor Paduraru snapped. He took his finger off the planchette. Mrs Witherball removed hers too, and the Captain yelped as it continued to spin under his finger. He snapped his hand back and the planchette shuddered and shot off the table, flying across the room to land with a clatter on the stone floor.

"I wasn't moving that!" the Captain insisted. He stared at his finger in horrified wonder.

"Hmm," said Tintin thoughtfully.

Mr Dudeldop retrieved the planchette and deposited it back on the board. Doctor Paduraru pinned Tintin with a Look. "Are we ready to continue?" he said stiffly.

"Yes," said Tintin.

They settled back and placed their fingers on the planchette again. Once more, Doctor Paduraru took a deep breath before calling out to Spirit. "Are there any spirits here who wish to communicate with us?" he asked.

The planchette began to turn in circles again. This time Tintin kept his finger lightly on it and allowed it to do what it wanted.

"Can you tell us your name?" Doctor Paduraru asked.

The planchette began to circle more slowly, before darting tentatively around the board. Doctor Paduraru spelled out the answer. _"E… Z… R… A…"_

"_Ezrath!" _Mr Dudeldop whispered excitedly.

"_T… H…" _Doctor Paduraru finished. He grinned around the table. "Father Ezrath, is that you?"

The planchette shot out to the 'Yes' circle on the board before returning to the center, where it circled lazily.

"You were a monk in the old abbey here?"

**_Yes. _**

"Can you tell us when the abbey was built?"

**_1413._**

"What was it like, living here?"

**_Evil. _**

"Evil? What evil?"

**_Evil._**

"Tell us about the evil."

**_Evil. Evil. _**

"What evil?"

The planchette began to spin wildly again, before stopping completely. The looked at one another. "What now?" Tintin asked. Doctor Paduraru shrugged uncertainly.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Should we try again? Mrs Witherball, can you add anything to this?"

She shook her head unhappily. "I sensed a great fear coming from him, poor dear. But also a great sense of holiness. I feel he is still with us."

Tintin found himself looking over his shoulder, searching for the man named Ezrath. When he realised what he was doing, he shook himself mentally. "Does anyone know when the abbey was built?" he asked.

"As far as I know, it would have been around 1410s," Mr Dudeldop said. "I'm going to write everything down," – he tapped the small notebook that was on the table in front of him, which Tintin hadn't noticed – "and check everything later, to find out how much is true. But 1413 would be quite accurate, I think."

"Shall we try again?" Doctor Paduraru asked. "Mrs Witherball, can you sense anyone other than Ezrath here?"

"Yes, there are more, but they are farther back than he is. They're nervous about coming forward." She stopped and shivered. "It's as though they're afraid of something."

"Now that you mention it, it has gone a bit cold, hasn't it?" the Captain said.

Tintin shrugged. "I don't think so."

"It has," Mrs Witherball agreed. "Can we do a reading?"

"I'm already on it." Mr Dudeldop had pulled out a little black mechanical object with a screen at the front. The screen showed the heat signatures of the people in the room. He moved it slowly from left to right, making sure he caught all of the Ouija board and those that sat at the table. "There's a definite drop in temperature," he said. "It's mainly around Mrs Witherball, but also around the Captain. You and Tintin seem to be normal," he added to Doctor Paduraru.

"Interesting," Doctor Paduraru said slowly. "I wonder, Captain, if you have a history of being sensitive?"

"The hell I am! I was decades on the ships, pal, and they kick that right out of you, let me tell _you!" _

"Not sensitive, as in _sensitive, _but 'sensitive' as in susceptible to psychic phenomena. Do you often experience things that others don't? Heightened perception? Prophetic dreams? Extra sensory perception?"

"Yes!" the Captain said.

"Yeah right!" Tintin couldn't help it: it just burst out. "Heightened perception my bum! It took you four days to notice when I grew a moustache!"

"That wasn't a moustache, that was pubes on your upper lip! I didn't want to point it out in case I hurt your feelings."

Tintin rolled his eyes.

"In any case, what about that time Cuthbert disappeared?" the Captain continued defiantly. "I saw him lean out of that big portrait of himself, and he spoke to me. He said we should be looking for him in the west."

This was the first time Tintin had heard this. He looked at the Captain but the man seemed genuine: his cheeks were burning for a start. "Really?"

"Yeah. Well, I never said anything because… Y'know… It's a bit strange."

"When was this?"

"Right before we left."

"When you were packing?"

"No, after that. I was just having a drink when" –

"Pfft!"

"That's why I never said anything." The Captain folded his arms defensively. "And for your information, I hadn't _had _a bloody drink. I poured it, toasted his portrait, and he popped out of it and spoke to me. As soon as that happened I poured the drink out the window."

"Right. So the portrait came to life and spoke to you."

"You're one to talk! You dragged me half way round the world, chasing a bad dream you'd had!"

"Chang was alive! We found him!"

"Yeah, and we found the yeti! And yet here we are, arguing about the possibility of the supernatural." The Captain gestured to the table in frustration. "How are you still so closed-minded?"

"Maybe I just find it hard to believe that the day a paranormal expert shows up, we develop a ghost problem. And it happens to be the day before Halloween," Tintin replied dryly.

"I assure you," Doctor Paduraru said stiffly, "my qualifications are rock solid, young man."

"You study things that have never been proven to exist," Tintin explained as patiently as he could. "That's like me being an expert in… in… The Dragon of Unhappiness. That's it: I'm an expert in the Dragon of Unhappiness," he declared, dragging up an old memory gleaned from a Terry Pratchett book he'd reread recently. He looked at their scornful faces. "It's a real thing," he said innocently. "It flies up the toilet and bites you on the bum unless you arrange your room in accordance with feng shui. Very myffic."

"You just made that up," Mrs Whitherball said.

"No I didn't," Tintin said truthfully. "It comes from a book written by a very well-respected author and, further more, a knight of the English realm." He carefully rechecked his statement, and could find no lie in it. His Lordship, Sir Terry Pratchett, was a very well-respected fantasy writer and satirist.

"And are there any photographs of this so-called dragon?" Mr Dudeldop asked.

"No. But there's no proven photographs of real ghosts either."

"If you look on the internet you can see several convincing" –

"Oh, if you look on the internet you can see several pictures of a convincing female Ezio Auditore, but that doesn't make it real! It makes it a very clever fake that someone spent a lot of time creating."

"Dragon of Unhappiness not withstanding," Doctor Paduraru interrupted, "can we please get back to the matter at hand?"

"What about Slenderman?" Tintin said quickly.

"Do _not _start with that again," the Captain warned. "I'm having enough trouble sleeping as it is!"

"But Slenderman started as a hoax: people were invited to invent a realistic new urban legend, and look at how quickly it took off," Tintin protested. "And it was realistic enough that I was able to wind you up about it for at least a week!"

The Captain suppressed a shudder. He remembered that week, and it hadn't been pleasant.

"Gentlemen," Mrs Witherball said quietly, "I do not wish to alarm you, but I believe we are about to make contact."

Mr Dudeldop, the Captain and Doctor Paduraru all glanced around quickly, their eyes searching the shadows. Tintin resisted the urge to do the same. He could almost convince himself that the skin on the back of his neck hadn't started to crawl.

Doctor Paduraru laid his hands back on the table. "I suggest we try calling out again. Mrs Witherball, are you equal to the task?"

"I don't think so, dearie," she said with a theatrical shiver. "Perhaps we could just ask for knocks or something. This isn't a good soul."

"Is there anyone there?" Doctor Paduraru asked in a loud voice. "Please, knock or make some kind of noise to let us know if you are there."

They paused. The silence dragged out as the seconds ticked by. Just as everyone started to relax there came two taps nearby, on one of the thick stone columns that supported the roof of the cellar.

"Thundering typhoons!"

"That could be anything," Tintin muttered.

"You go and check then."

"Come with me."

"The hell I will!" The Captain gripped the edge of the table. He didn't look frightened, per say, but it was fighting with annoyance for supreme control of the volatile man's emotions.

"Thank you," Doctor Paduraru continued, ignoring them. "Can you make that noise again."

They waited, holding their breath. Eventually there came two more knocks, louder and harder this time, and closer to the table. Doctor Paduraru looked relieved. "Shall we try to make contact with the planchette?" He put his finger on the innocent-looking plastic toy and looked at them inquiringly.

"Er," said the Captain. He glanced uncomfortably at Tintin, who shrugged. "Do you want to?"

"I dare you to," Tintin replied.

"Don't be daft."

"Chicken? Buk-_aww!"_

"Let's do this." The Captain put his finger on the planchette, and Tintin quickly followed suit. Mr Dudeldop was slightly more reluctant and Doctor Paduraru had to stop himself from asking the Captain and Tintin to take it a bit more seriously.

"Spirit, if you can hear me, use our energy to speak," Doctor Paduraru said, his eyes closed and a look of concentration covered his face. "Come forward and speak to us."

"Careful, dearie," Mrs Witherball whispered. "This feels like a bad 'un."

The planchette moved. This time, it wasn't the hesitant, uncertain movement of Father Ezrath. This time, it moved slowly and purposefully around the board.

"_G. O. A. W. A. Y." _Doctor Paduraru spelled aloud. He raised an eyebrow and looked at the others. "Succinct," he quipped.

"Um," said Tintin. The planchette was moving again. He quickly took his finger off it. It slowed marginally, but still kept moving.

**"_G. E. T. O. U. T." _**

"I don't think he wants to talk," Mr Dudeldop said.

"**_M. Y. H. O. U. S. E." _**

"I do believe you're right, Mr Dudeldop," Doctor Paduraru agreed.

**"_I. D. O. N. T. L. I. K. E. T. H. E. W. A. L. P. A. P. R." _**

"Which wallpaper?" the Captain asked, annoyed. "I'll have you know that only period wallpaper was used when I redid this place. Very expensive it was, too."

**"_T. A. S. T. E. L. E. S." _**

"It is _not _tasteless!"

"Spirit, tell us your name!" Doctor Paduraru demanded.

The planchette stopped moving. They waited, staring at it, but nothing happened. Off to the right, it sounded like something fell from the ceiling. It hit the stone flags of the cellar floor and made a light clanging noise. Tintin grabbed one of the candlesticks and stood up.

"Be careful," the Captain warned.

"I will be," Tintin murmured. The whole atmosphere of the cellar had changed now. There was a definite drop in temperature, even he could feel it. His arms were covered in goose-bumps and the soft flame of the candle flickered in a nonexistent gust of air. He walked steadily into the gloom, the shadows parting around him like the Red Sea, until his foot connected with something. He kicked something small across the floor. He saw the flash of silver as a key bounced off a column. He bent down and picked it up. "It's a key," he said.

"A key?" asked Doctor Paduraru.

"No wallpaper?" That was the Captain.

"No, just a key." Tintin went back and showed them the key. It was just a bit smaller than the keys that fit into the inner doors of Marlinspike House, but was made of a polished metal that looked like silver. It looked fancy. They each looked at it but could make no guesses as to where it came from or what it would open, so he slipped it into his pocket and forgot about it.

The planchette didn't move after that. Whoever the ghost was, it had made its point about the wallpaper and had no inclination to explain its sudden gift of the key-like variety. "I think we should start the walk-through now," Mr Dudeldop said, standing up. He started swinging his heat-sensor camera around the room. "We've done this room, but shall we do it again? We can do a call-out in front of that wall the spirit disappeared through."

"Walk-through?" Tintin whispered to the Captain.

"No idea," the Captain whispered back. "Doctor Paradingle mentioned it this morning on the phone, but I thought he meant he wanted to look over the park. You know how people enjoy walking through the park."

"I think he means a ghost hunt," Tintin said. They stood up and watched as Doctor Paduraru and Mr Dudeldop, followed by Mrs Witherball, walked towards the hole in the wall and the passage beyond. All three were chatting animatedly about the success of the Ouija board. "And I think he means to do it in the house."

"I'm starting to regret this," the Captain said with a sigh.

"So am I," Tintin agreed ruefully. "Look, Captain, I don't think this is going to solve anything. I'm going to head upstairs for a while. Let me know when they're gone."

"You're going to leave me to deal with this on my own?" the Captain asked, looking startled.

"Just think of it as exercise for your sensitive side," Tintin said sweetly.

* * *

**Author's Note:** That's it, folks: the **ONLY** time the vampire actually 'appears' in this story. Seriously. Everyone hates vampires: they're dull. Except when they're written by Anne Rice, which is when they're are sexy whilst simultaneously being dull.

I did a lot of research for this story, believe it or not. Mind you, most of it was watching repeats of Most Haunted and checking out various séances, Ouija boards and psychics on YouTube There's a lot of fraudulent shit out there, but sometimes there's one or two that make you think "hmm, there could be something more to this". So because I can't make up my mind about whether or not it's all a load of shit, this whole story is going to be ambiguous about it too: it's up to you to decide what's real or not, and there is no right or wrong answer. Unless you find a plot hole. In which case: a wizard did it. -_-

Also, I totally misjudged how many days it was until Halloween. Today's Tuesday, meaning Halloween is tomorrow and there is still one more chapter update for today. Hurrah!


	16. 8: Most(ly) Haunted

_**8: Most(ly) Haunted**_

Tintin lay on his bed reading. He was lying on his stomach, with Snowy sitting beside him staring at the closed door and whimpering every time the loud voices came closer. To deal with the bickering of the ghost hunters, Tintin had turned on his C.D. player and was listening to music at a fairly loud volume. The door to his bedroom opened and the Captain appeared.

"Will you _please _turn that down!"

"Captain, it's 9pm. Are they going to be here for much longer?" Tintin said in a weary voice as he got up to turn down the volume.

"Er, they want to do this for the whole night."

"No!" Tintin shook his head. "This has gone on for long enough and we're still no closer to clearing up this mystery! Nut up and tell them to go!"

"I can't!" The Captain looked shocked at the idea.

"Captain, you're better than this! You've seen weirder stuff than this at sea. Hell, you've seen weirder stuff than this hanging out with me!"

"Yeah, but every time we go downstairs the cellar door is open. And we're locking it every time."

"So we'll put a chair up against it."

"We tried that, but Nestor keeps moving it."

"Then we'll nail it shut!" Tintin collapsed back onto his bed. "Captain, we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow! Can we not just have a nice, quiet night tonight without the Phantom Creepers of Fakery! Hell, even I can predict something: it starts with 'f'. Fffffffffffff_raaaauuuud! _Fraud! – Oh, hello Mr Dudeldop."

"Don't let me interrupt you," Mr Dudeldop said with a sniff. He came in past the Captain and swung another instrument around. It beeped slowly as he pushed it into all the corners, the wardrobe, the en-suite bathroom, the shower, behind the curtains, under the windows… he swung it around the ceiling and it burst into loud, fast beeps. "Got it!" he called loudly. "The manifestation seems to be centred on this room."

"Which room is it?" Doctor Paduraru called excitedly.

"Uh, a bedroom."

"Tintin's bedroom," the Captain added. "But he won't like" –

"Of course!" Doctor Paduraru came in with Mrs Witherball. He looked as though all the pieces of the mystery had just slotted into place. "Most hauntings and manifestations concentrate on prepubescent children."

"Prepubescent!" Tintin cried. "I'm not _prepubescent!"_

"I dunno, lad," the Captain said quickly. "That pubey moustache said otherwise."

"Captain, I'm _sixteen! _I'm not even a vir – Hey! Get out of my wardrobe!"

"There's the Stetson Lady Alice told us about," Mr Dudeldop said with a grin. Tintin snatched the hat away from him. "I was in America," he snapped. "It's a souvenir." He went to throw it on the bed, but stopped dead. "What are you doing under the bed?" he asked, astonished.

Doctor Paduraru was stretched out on the floor, shining a light underneath the bed. "I'm just making sure there's no childish trickery going on," he said firmly.

"Right, that's it. Get out. Get out, all of you!"

"There's definitely a vortex," Mrs Witherball said. She gestured to the area around the door to the bathroom. "It's right here. The veil is thinner here, and spirits are finding it easier to move from their plane of existence to ours. We should do a quick calling-out here, and then try to shut it down so the poor boy doesn't have any more sleepless nights."

"What sleepless nights?" Tintin asked the room in general. "I don't _have _any sleepless nights!"

"You used to," the Captain pointed out.

"Yeah, but I think that was more to do with crippling guilt over Ramó Nash's actions than ghosts!"

"Oh right."

"Ah, yes, the infamous serial killer." Mr Dudeldop stopped his baffling investigation and sidled up. "You're related to him, aren't you? Tell me" –

"He's still alive so he's nothing to do with it," Tintin said tightly.

"Of course. Of course."

"Mr Dudeldop has an interest in such things," Doctor Paduraru said as he got up off the floor, "but of course he understands that now isn't the best time to talk about them." He took a hold of Mr Dudeldop's arm and led him away. "Why don't you go and check the plasma levels in the cellar? In case there's been a material manifestation? And let me know if the door is still locked."

Mr Dudeldop toddled off. Doctor Paduraru turned to Tintin. "Ghosts can feed off the energy of children and teenagers better than they can from adults," he explained. "It's nothing against you: you're just young enough that your wild emotions and mood swings are still volatile and can still feed parasitic entities like this."

"I don't have wild emotions and mood swings," Tintin pointed out.

"He's right; he doesn't," the Captain agreed. "He's actually very calm. Is that normal?"

"For sixteen? No, it isn't, you lucky bastard. My daughter's a complete nightmare," Mrs Witherball muttered.

Tintin lay back down on the bed and picked up his book. "I give up," he said. "Do whatever you want. Just leave me out of it."

**x**

It was hard to read with the lights off. This was the first thing that annoyed Tintin when the paranormal group started their in-depth investigation in his bedroom. The second thing to annoy him, when he'd finally given up on his book and had stuck on a pair of headphones while he sat at the computer, was the fact that people kept nudging him and talking to him, making it hard to concentrate on his game. And he had to keep taking the headphones off. In the end he gave up with a minimum of swearing and threats and went to sit beside the Captain.

They were sitting on the bed, side by side with their backs against the headboard. Snowy was lying between them on his back, his feet stuck in the air as Tintin scratched his belly. Snowy was a bit like Father Jack: show him a dark room and he assumed it was night and fell right asleep. "Do you honestly believe in any of this?" Tintin whispered to the Captain. The other end of the room had gone quiet about fifteen minutes ago. The paranormal team were all sitting silently, waiting. There was a definite divide, with them on one side and Tintin on the other while the Captain flitted back and forth between the two like a bewildered butterfly.

The Captain made a face. "I don't know. I don't know what to think."

"If the only problem is the cellar door opening on its own, we _could _nail it shut."

"Can't: we store things down there."

"We could always throw away the broken trampoline."

They shared a moment of silent sorrow for their fallen comrade before the Captain shook his head. "We store other stuff down there. Besides, Old Trampy's not dead. He's just a little broken. We can get him fixed."

"You keep saying that, but we can't find anyone to fix him. We're just going to have to face facts." Tintin laid a consoling hand on the Captain's arm. "We have to buy a new trampoline."

The Captain looked away. "I… I don't think I'm ready for that. Every time I go to throw that old thing away I keep remembering the look on Nestor's face… You remember: when he was upstairs and we put the crash mats around it, and you managed to get really high up on the pogo stick…" The Captain dissolved into giggles.

There was a low growl.

"Hush, Snowy," the Captain said.

"That wasn't Snowy," Tintin said. He had been petting the dog's hairy chest and stomach and hadn't felt the tell-tale grumble growing inside the animal.

"Was that the dog?" Doctor Paduraru asked. He nudged Mr Dudeldop awake.

"No."

"Then there's something else in here with us. Shall we try a calling-out?"

"No!" the Captain said quickly. "Whatever made that noise, I'm happier not knowing!"

"Does anyone know where it came from?" Doctor Paduraru got up and started moving around the room. Tintin could barely see him in the darkness. He was walking in front of the window to stand in the doorway to the en-suite. "Was it from over here?"

"I'm not sure," Mr Dudeldop said. He was on his knees, swinging one of his strange mechanical toys around. "I'm not getting any readings."

There was another growl. Doctor Paduraru quickly moved out of the doorway. "Yup," he said, his lips pursed. "That came from right beside my ear!"

Tintin and the Captain leaped away from the bed as the picture, which had always hung above it, started to move. It jerked from side to side alarmingly. On the other side of the room, on the wall above the computer desk, the calendar Tintin had hung up at the start of the year fell down with a loud, papery rustle.

**"_Be gone!" _**

The voice came from everywhere, and yet Tintin couldn't pin it down to any one place. His heart was hammering in his chest and both the Captain and Snowy were stuck to him in fright. It was a close call, but eventually he realised it was Snowy who was whimpering. The Captain was managing to keep a lid on his fear.

**"_WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?" _**

"Blistering bollox!" The Captain lost it and dove head first under the duvet. Everyone else froze as the door opened and the light was turned on. Cuthbert Calculus stood in the doorway. He looked around, confused, and caught sight of Tintin doing his best to hide behind Snowy, who was clutched to his chest, and the Captain's feet and legs sticking out of the bed.

"Oh thank God it's just you!" the Captain said, relieved. He crawled back out of the bed, the duvet around his head like a thick cape. "You frightened us half to death!"

"Captain…" Cuthbert paused and scratched at the thick mane of black hair that circled his pate: his last attempt at pretending that he wasn't going bald. "Captain, I'm not sure that it's entirely appropriate for all these people to be in Tintin's bedroom…?"

"Professor?" Tintin seized a sudden idea desperately. "You're not doing any experiments that would make the house shake? Or anything that would make any strange noises?"

"No, I'm not in the habit of wearing disguises," Cuthbert replied. "And may I remind you all that it's almost 11:30 at night, and some of us are trying to sleep. You're making a terrible racket."

"No, Professor, are you doing any _experiments" – _

"My interest in igneous sediments is not a matter of concern!"

"No, in your lab. _Your lab!" _

The Professor looked down at his pyjamas. "Well, they're ok, but I don't think I'm _that _fab. Although in my youth I was quite the disco dancer." He put one fist on his waist and stabbed the air with the forefinger of his other hand. "It's all in the hips, you know."

"Ok, I think we're done here tonight," Doctor Paduraru said faintly. "Captain, Tintin, would you mind taking the Professor out of here? We're going to seal the vortex and hopefully that'll stop any more spirits from coming through."

"And what about the one that's already here?" the Captain asked anxiously as Tintin led the Professor away and tried to explain about the ghost hunt.

"We'll come back and do a cleansing tomorrow," Doctor Paduraru said as he went to close the door on the Captain's face. "I promise, we'll sort it all out." He closed the door and turned back to his companions. "This place is a mad house!" he hissed in a hushed voice.

"Let's get it done quickly and get the hell out of here," Mrs Witherball said firmly. "And I swear that boy laughed at my name!"


	17. 1: In the Cold Light of Day

**PART TWO: LE BOSSU DE NOTRÉ-LAME**

_31st of October_

* * *

_**1: In the Cold Light of Day**_

It was 6am. The paranormal group had left just before 1am, and they'd gone to bed shortly after that. Neither Tintin nor the Captain had said anything aloud, but it was an unspoken agreement that neither wanted to spend the night on their own. The Captain had ended up bedding down on the old, squishy couch in his room while Tintin had taken the bed. Snowy had spent the last few hours going back and forth between the two of them, sharing his body heat and waking them from their fitful sleep.

The Captain had woken up a few minutes ago, and he'd woken up with a dreadful thought. He sat on the couch, his blanket over his knees, and stared at the sleeping form of Tintin. It was such an awful thought it didn't bare thinking about, but something Doctor Paduraru had said the night before wouldn't go away. He'd said that hauntings usually centred on children. Then he'd checked under the bed for what he'd termed as 'childish trickery'.

To say that Tintin was childish was wrong: it simply wasn't true. He was sensible, steadfast and hard-working. If there was a job to do, he did it. He did it quickly and with the minimum amount of fuss and complaints. He also approached the rest of his life in this way: get stuck in and get on with it. Setbacks didn't set _him_ back for long.

In fact, it was actually he, the Captain, who could be considered the most childish of the two. If there were pranks being pulled, it was usually the Captain who had started it. If there was a water- or snow-ball fight going on, it was usually because the Captain had struck first. If there was something on fire, it was usually because the Captain had lit the fuse while Tintin held his coat.

They _had_ been playing an awful lot of pranks lately. And it had escalated quite quickly. Sometimes there were only hours between the pranks; other times days, and you were _really _caught of guard. The Captain's last one had been spectacular. So far, Tintin hadn't been able to get him back.

Or had he?

That was the problem. Tintin didn't let things get this far, to the point where not only was it affecting the Captain, but a lot of other people too. He knew – _knew – _that if Tintin had been behind this it would have ended on Monday or maybe Tuesday morning. The punch-line, as it were, would have hit the Captain by now.

So going by that, it _couldn't _be a joke Tintin was pulling. And the only other reason he would pull something like this – because he was being deliberately nasty or looking for attention – was so unlike him to be unthinkable.

But still the thought wouldn't go away.

The Captain shook his head and got up. He'd change in the bathroom and head out, he thought, to start figuring out how the hell those fairground rides worked. He had a busy day ahead, after all.

**x**

Tintin woke up to soft, swishing sounds. He sat up and saw the Captain standing at the end of the bed, fully dressed and pulling a thick jumper over his head. Tintin instantly relaxed and lay back, yawning. "You're up early," he said lazily.

"Yeah. Lots to do," the Captain said. He sounded distant, like he was preoccupied.

"Oh, of course," Tintin said, groaning inwardly. There was a lot of work that had to be done today, but at least the pay-off was worth it. The fair would be a lot of fun. "What's first on the list?"

"I want to get those rides sorted. Figure out where they're going and how they work, so when the workmen come we get them set up straight away." The Captain paused at the bedroom door. "I'll probably be busy today."

"Do you need a hand?" Tintin asked. He reached down and scratched Snowy's side. The little dog made a happy noise and turned over, insisting Tintin scratch his belly.

"No, you're fine," the Captain said quickly.

Tintin frowned. "But it's pitch-dark out there."

"I'll use the car's headlights."

"Are you sure? I don't mind helping out."

"No, honestly. You stay here."

The Captain was desperate to get away. Tintin could see it clearly, and wondered what was wrong. "Ok," he said uncertainly. "Is there anything you need me to do here?"

"No. Yes!" The Captain clicked his fingers. "Nestor and the sodding caterers. Will you make sure he lets them get on with their job? Call me when they get here though."

"I can do that," Tintin said with a nod. "Anything else?"

"Not that I can think of. Oh, and call me when Doctor Paduraru gets here."

Tintin rolled his eyes. "Fine."

The Captain regarded him silently, noting the reaction. "You don't like him?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I think he's a fraud," Tintin said bluntly. "I think this is someone playing tricks."

"I think you're right about that," the Captain said thoughtfully. His dark eyes bore into Tintin's lighter, green ones. Tintin cocked his head, his brows knitted together in a frown. The Captain shrugged, shot him a worried grin, and left.

"Huh," said Tintin when the door was firmly closed. He thought furiously. Did the Captain think it was he, Tintin, who was pulling all this? No, that wasn't possible: the Captain knew him well enough to know it wasn't his style. Yes, he'd got the Captain with the Slenderman joke, but that had taken a week because he'd carefully laid the seeds of doubt scattered over the course of a few days. The actual joke had only taken about five minutes to pull, and was over quite quickly, but was worth it considering the Captain had bought all those statues of the Weeping Angels and left them dotted about the park one night. That was one of the worst nights of Tintin's life.

He hugged his knees tightly and thought about it. He was sure – _sure – _that there was a logical explanation. First of all, where had that key come from? He got out of bed and hurried back to his own room, all thoughts of vortexes and ghosts pushed out of his head as his brain whirled busily. He hastily dressed and was heading down the spiralling stairs to the cellar before Nestor had even entered the kitchens to start making breakfast.

The table was still set up from the night before. He went to where he had been sitting and tried to remember where the key had come from. It had definitely been from the right: he had stood up and his back had been to the others. He faced that direction now and took a few halting steps forwards. How many columns had he passed? He was sure he had walked between these two _here, _and then he'd gone through _these, _and half way to the next set, he'd kicked the key. It had bounced off the third set of columns.

He looked down, but the floor was bare. He looked up, but couldn't see anything other than the curves and slender arches of the high, vaulted ceiling.

It wasn't actually that high, he realised. Now that he thought of it, he could probably touch the lowest part of the plaster if he stood on a box. The Captain could almost touch the highest part of the arches just by jumping. He looked around for something to stand on, and his eyes fell on the trunk. He went to it and grabbed it by one of the handles, tilting it so he could drag it over to where he had found the key. As it lifted, something inside the box slipped down and hit the other end of the trunk. Tintin paused and looked down.

The trunk had been there for as long as he could remember. It was just an old box they'd found somewhere – it might have been in the house, or it might have been the Captain's: he didn't remember because it was such an unremarkable object. He was sure, though, that there had been nothing in it when it had been put down here. He laid it back down and knelt down in front of it to open it.

The lid wouldn't budge. Maybe they'd put it down here because there was no key?

His fingers brushed against the lock gently. The keyhole was set in the middle of a circle of silver-coloured metal decorated around the edges with delicate filigree.

He hated when things like this happened. He knew the key was in his pocket. He knew this because it had dropped out of thin air last night during the séance. He didn't know by any earthly means other than pure pox: sheer, overwhelming stupidity that pointed to more stupidity. Of _course _the mysterious old trunk was stored down here. Of _course _a mysterious old key had dropped out of thin air. Why _wouldn't _that happen? Normal things like that happened every day!

Against all reason, he pulled the key out of his pocket and opened the trunk. He raised the lid and looked inside. A small, battered book with a brown leather cover sat at the bottom of the trunk, against one of the sides. There was nothing else in with it.

Tintin took it out and opened it, leafing through a few pages before turning to the front page. _The Diary of Mary de Valois. _

Of _course_ it was.


	18. 2: Unmasked

_**2: Unmasked**_

The Captain wandered through Marlinspike Hall, calling forlornly. If it wasn't for the noises coming from the kitchen (and the accompanying smells, which were delightful), the Captain would have thought he was in a dream. Or a nightmare.

"Tintin?" he called. "Tintin! Where are you? Tintin?" He checked bedrooms and sitting rooms and even the cellar, but the only thing down there was the that old trunk, wherever it had come from. Nestor and the estate's handyman had moved the table and chairs back upstairs at lunchtime.

It was doubly confounding that the boy couldn't be found. First of all, the Captain had thought long and hard all day and realised he was stupid to suspect Tintin of playing tricks. He felt ashamed now that he'd even thought it. He wanted to apologise. Secondly, he was already wearing his Dracula costume for the night and he wanted to jump out and scare Tintin.

He doubted he was being quiet enough to achieve the second objective, but he still hadn't assuaged his guilt so he wasn't going to fail on the first.

"Tintin!" He wandered back down the stairs and stood in the entrance hall. He could hear the garish music of the fairground – everything was ready: he was just waiting for the food to be brought down there before the gates were opened and the guests would start to arrive. The noise from the kitchen was gone. Nestor was probably showing the caterers the way to the fairground so they could load up the stalls with cookies and toffee apples and various sweetly-flavoured crap like that. God love them: it would rot their teeth. _Still, _he thought to himself, _the best part of Halloween is the sweeties._

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When all else failed: shout until someone came running. _"Tiiiiintiiiiiin!" _

The door to the sitting room on his right opened a few seconds later and Tintin popped his head out. "Yes Captain?" he asked calmly.

"Oh, there you are." The Captain cleared his throat. "I was looking for you. Look, I, er, want to apologise. I was acting like a total idiot this morning. I don't want you to think I was blaming you for anything. I'm not. At all."

"I'm just on the phone, Captain," Tintin said. He held his hand out and shook his phone at the Captain. "Can I just check one more thing, and then we can talk? I'll explain everything to you then."

Behind them, the doorbell rang. The Captain moved to open it. "So you _do_ know what's going on?" he asked, confused.

"I think I'm getting to the bottom of it now," Tintin said. His eyes lit up when he saw their visitors. "Ah! Doctor Paduraru! I'm glad you're here. Please, come right in. I'll be with you all in a moment. Oh, and don't start without me."

"We can easily clear the vortex in your room," Doctor Paduraru said uneasily as he stepped into the Hall. "It will only take a moment."

"All the same, I'd like to be there when you do it," Tintin said with a wink. "If you'll all excuse me?" He gestured to the phone again and made to go back into the sitting room. He paused at the last minute and looked back at the Captain. "That's a great costume," he admitted. "When you said Dracula, I thought you meant Dracula-Dracula, not Bram Stoker's _Dracula._ Very, very good costume."

The Captain raised the blood-red velvet robe, showing off the draping sleeves. The wig of strangely-styled, stark white hair looked disconcertingly spooky. "It's good, innit?" the Captain said, ruining the effect.

"Very good," Tintin agreed. He shook his head, still smiling, and closed the door on them.

The Captain clapped his hands and rubbed them briskly together. "Cup of tea before we start?" he offered.

Doctor Paduraru shook his head. "My colleagues and I will go and get started upstairs, if it's all the same with you."

"Tintin said to wait," the Captain said. He pointed at the door, to remind them.

"Captain, if it's all the same with you I'll push on. It's Halloween and I'm sure you've a busy night ahead of you." He breezed passed the Captain and started up the stairs.

"Perhaps we should wait," Mrs Witherball said nervously.

"I'll set up the equipment and start burning sage," Doctor Paduraru said with a sigh. "I won't start without anyone."

**x**

Tintin found Doctor Paduraru five minutes later. The man was standing, seething, outside the bedroom door. "Ah, Doctor!" Tintin said cheerfully. "I had a feeling you might want to get in there before everyone else, so I locked it."

"Why?" the Captain asked with a groan.

"Because the good doctor might want to plant something else, or take away more evidence," Tintin explained as he unlocked the door.

"How dare you!" Doctor Paduraru said, affronted. "I'll have you know that I am a highly respected academic!"

"Yes, but your expertise doesn't extend to anything outside the supernatural, does it?" Tintin asked innocently. "It certainly wouldn't extend to history, would it?" He opened his bedroom door and showed them all in.

"I don't see what history has to do with anything," Doctor Paduraru said. He walked over towards the bed.

"Stay where you are," Tintin said, his voice ringing with command. Instantly, Doctor Paduraru stopped walking. Tintin dropped to his knees and felt around under the bed. "Watch the picture," he said, nodding to the landscape painting above his bed.

They stared at it. Nothing happened.

They continued to stare. Did it move, slightly? Did it rock from side to side gently?

Now it was _definitely _moving. It jerked away from the wall, as though fighting to get down. "Clever, isn't it?" Tintin said. He stood up and brushed the knees of his jeans clear of dust before hopping up to stand on the bed. He plucked the painting down from its nail and held it out. "See the wire? It's see-through, to make it invisible. It's so thin, we didn't see it last night."

A thin piece of clear wire ran from the looped screw in the back of the picture frame. Pulling on the wire wouldn't make the picture fall, but it would make it move around on the wall a little.

"There is your trickster, Captain," Doctor Paduraru said at once. He pointed at Tintin. "Childish tricks."

Tintin screwed up his face thoughtfully as he jumped back down from the bed. "No," he said at last. "I don't think that will work. You see, I'm not that childish really. But you? You're desperate for validation for your work, aren't you?"

"If you mean to imply" –

"Oh, I'm not implying anything: I'm out-right saying you're a fraud." Tintin faced him down calmly. "Professor Fort was right: you showing up here at the same time as this 'ghost' is too much of a coincidence."

"I came because I was called." Doctor Paduraru drew himself up and glared at Tintin frostily.

"No, the second time you came because you were called," Tintin pointed out. "The first time, you came by yourself. And you spent the entire day here on your own, didn't you? You had plenty of time to set things up without anyone noticing. You probably couldn't believe your luck. You had a whole day to set up all your tricks to make us believe this house was haunted. I bet you've never had that sort of time before, hmm?"

The Captain tugged at his ear fretfully. "So there's no ghost?"

"No, Captain, there isn't. Like I said before; vampires don't exist." Tintin shrugged at Doctor Paduraru. "Do you want to just admit it, or shall I explain how you managed to pull this off? I understand most of it."

"I have done nothing wrong," Doctor Paduraru exclaimed.

"Then I shall explain." Tintin gave him a bright smile before turning back to the others. "You see, the history Doctor Paduraru gave us is mostly right, but he doesn't know enough about history to make sure it was _all _right. Francois de Sart-Moulin did come here. He did lay the foundations for Marlinspike Hall, and he was instrumental in the founding of Moulinsart. That's why the village is still called Moulinsart. And he was very loosely connected with the Hapsburg-Valois dynasty. However, there are absolutely no records that state he was a cruel, evil man who treated the workers like slaves, left them to rot in a big pit, or did anything that would draw the Hapsburgs down on him. There was an outbreak of plague in the area that left a small mass-grave on the outskirts of town, beside the graveyard, but that happened two hundred years _after_ Francois de Sart-Moulin died."

"So?" Doctor Paduraru asked. "What has that to do with anything?"

"I love history," Tintin said with a sigh. "You can't argue with facts, and when you want facts laid out simply and in the correct order, historians are the ones to go to. There is only one mass grave in Moulinsart, and it was made two hundred years _after _Francois de Sart-Moulin died. Let's go back over the files you gave us, yes? In particular, let's take a closer look at the entry by Father Augustine, who chronicled the building of the house and the giant pit of dead corpses beside its foundations. Which," he added as an aside, "doesn't exist. When the occupants before us redid the cellars, there was no such pit found. There has never been two mass graves in Moulinsart. There isn't one down at the dig site, either, which I'm sure Professor Fort will validate when they're done digging around down there."

"Maybe the priest was confused," Mr Dudeldop offered.

"With what? A pit that didn't exist? Remember, the only mass grave in the area was made two hundred years later."

Mr Dudeldop shrugged and looked uncomfortable.

"Let's go through the files, shall we?" Tintin asked innocently. "Next up: the appearance of another member of the Hapsburg family: Philip of Normandy."

"A real person," Doctor Paduraru said quickly. "You can check any history book you want: he existed."

"He sure did!" Tintin agreed happily. "Philip the Bold of Normandy. Or, King Philip. Of France."

"What?"

"King Philip of France. You see, the Philip of Normandy you chose to include in the story went on to become King Philip of France. His life is very well documented, and at no point in his biography did he come here. Nor did he lose his youngest son, his eldest daughter, or his wife. And he didn't break his neck either. In fact, he went on to become King. Which would be hard if you were dead."

"Oh." Doctor Paduraru thought furiously. "But surely there could be more than one Philip of Normandy?"

"Yes. But not at the same time as Philip of Normandy. I'm sure there was one before him, and there was probably one after him, but there was never another one at the same time as him. It wouldn't work, y'see. People get confused easily."

Doctor Paduraru stared at him, his face blank.

"Shall I continue?" Tintin asked, warming to his subject. "Or do you want to end this charade and come clean? No? Fair enough.

"Next up is the Vampire Hunting Kit. It was a good kit. It looked real. In fact, it _was _real. Or rather, _realistic. _Everything in it was from the same time-period, and they were all similar enough to look as though they came from the same set. Most of the items probably did. On the other hand, the first Vampire Hunting Kit was made by an English man named Michael de Winter. You won't find him in any peerage books though: he was just an ordinary bloke who, in 1972, owned an antiques stall. As a hobby, he invented the kit and sold it for a bit of a profit as a 'curiosity item'. The person he sold it to knew from the start that it was a fake, and Mr de Winter came out and publicly said it was a fake back in 2005, when vampire killing kits started to sell for serious money in Christies. He pointed out that it was easy enough to tell it was a fake seeing as vampires don't exist.

"There's also another couple of 'tells', as it were, to show that it's a bluff: one, Plomdeur's name is spelled wrong. Two, his mark is stamped, not engraved, on the butt of the pistol, which was wrong for the time period. Three, Professor Blomberg doesn't exist and is a known fake. He has never existed: his name appears on the kit as a joke. It's an inside _joke, _Doctor Paduraru. It's how historians make fun of people like you. It's a good kit though, I'll give you that," he conceded. "It must have taken you some time to put together."

"So that gun's not real?" the Captain asked, relieved.

"No, Captain, it isn't. It's an out-of-commission fire-arm. It probably hasn't worked for years. It was clever of you to put it in the cellar though," Tintin said, turning back to Doctor Paduraru. "How long did you know about the secret door down there?"

Everyone looked to Doctor Paduraru, who was rather white about the face now. His Adam's apple bobbled as though he was continuously swallowing.

"Because there is a secret door down there," Tintin continued flatly. "That's how someone was getting in and out of the cellar," he added to the Captain. "Part of the cellar is an old Catholic chapel. The Captain's ancestor, Sir Frances Haddock, was a Catholic you see. But religion was funny back then: he put in a hidden door. You see, he'd just come from a situation where Catholics were being persecuted. The priests had to give mass in secret, and sometimes Roman Catholic nobles, like Sir Francis, would invite them into their manors to give mass there. But there was always a hidden door in case they were raided and arrested for practicing their faith. You, Doctor Paduraru, have been using Sir Francis's hidden door."

"How do you know?" the Captain asked, baffled.

"Because the door is common knowledge in historical circles," Tintin explained. "There's a record of the plans for Marlinspike Hall, which have been updated through the years as various occupants took over and made changes and renovations. You know the cold spot at the end of that sealed-off part of the cellar? The spot that Snowy stands and stares at?"

"That's the secret door, isn't it?"

"It certainly is, Captain." Tintin turned back to Doctor Paduraru. "You've been coming and going by way of our cellar for ages now, haven't you? You were able to plant the Vampire Killing Kit down there, using that door, weren't you? But the door was always kept locked. You could only interfere with the cellar, until you were left here all alone for the whole day. That's probably when you stole the spare key. And once you had the spare key, all you had to do was keep opening _our _door down to make sure we investigated down there.

"How long ago did you plant the Vampire Killing Kit and the diary? I imagine your tricks with the door were a last resort: neither of us have been down there since the end of the summer, when we put the broken trampoline down there. When the Captain and I went down there on Monday night, we saw you. You stood at the end of the corridor and when we noticed you, you used the secret door to leave.

"When we were checking the security tapes for Professor Fort, you weren't inside the house. You went outside to 'scout the perimeter'. And when we were all staring at the monitors, you made another appearance just for us. That was you we were chasing, wasn't it? And of course, when you left via the secret door, you bumped into Professor Calculus outside, and pretended you were there the whole time. Nobody thought to question why the paranormal investigator was with a man who was dowsing."

"But _why?" _Mr Dudeldop burst out. "Doctor, what's going on?"

"Oh, I imagine it's something to do with greed, isn't it Doctor?" Tintin said, answering for him. "Or fame. You've been trying to validate your work for years now, but you've never been able to. I would imagine you thought that if we, Tintin and Captain Haddock, swore that you helped us with a ghost problem your name would be famous. You would be a leading expert in your field, yes?"

Doctor Paduraru glared daggers at him, his face stony and his mouth set in a grim line. "You think you're so clever, don't you?" he said. "Well, there's one thing you forgot."

"What's that?"

"This. _Buh!" _He ran for it, tearing past them and almost knocking Tintin off balance. Snowy, barking wildly, gave chase at once.

The Captain and the paranormal group blinked at each other in surprise. "I wasn't expecting that," Mrs Witherball said.

"I don't see why not: Lady Alice had him down pat," Tintin pointed out. "Let's face it, Mr Dudeldop, and I don't mean to offend you but if you were any more in the closet you'd be in Narnia. As it is, you're finding next year's Christmas presents. And the Captain is an incurable drunk. And I wear a Stetson hat when I'm down. She told the truth about us all, and when she said Doctor Paduraru was a fraud, she was telling the truth too."

"Wait, so Lady Alice is real?" the Captain asked, completely confused by now.

"I have no idea," Tintin admitted. "It could be the subconscious part of Mrs Witherball's mind, or it could be that she's able to channel the dead. I don't think we'll ever be convinced either way."

"But what about the rest of it?" Mr Dudeldop asked, his cheeks still flushed from embarrassment. "The key? The Ouija board? The noises in here last night?"

"The Ouija board is easy to explain: Doctor Paduraru never took his finger off it. He was moving the planchette. When it shot off the table, he must have pushed it a little when he _did _take his finger off. The key was secured to the ceiling of the cellar. I found a small bit of sticky tape there. He must have put it there overnight, when nobody was looking. I know we rarely review the security tapes, but I'd bet my ass that if we did we'd catch him putting it up there. It's cold down in the cellar, and the condensation would wear the adhesive off the tape eventually. And if it wasn't secured too tightly to begin with, it would fall quite quickly."

"Securing it with sticky tape? But how would he know when it would fall?"

"He didn't: it was divine intervention or coincidence that made it fall at that precise moment. He didn't need to be here when it fell: he just needed us to find a key in the middle of the cellar and realise that it would fit into that old trunk we stored down there. Which isn't ours," Tintin added to the Captain. "Do you remember where it came from?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. We have so many of them."

"We actually don't," Tintin replied. "We have two: the one in the attic, which is still there, and Sir Francis's old one, which is still in the Maritime Gallery. We don't own that chest in the cellar. If Doctor Paduraru hadn't put that chest there, I probably would never have realised what was going on. As it is, it was only when I opened it and saw what was inside, that I twigged what was going on."

"What do you mean?" Mrs Witherball asked. "What was in the chest?"

"The diary of Philip of Normandy's daughter, Mary," Tintin said. He lifted his pillow and showed them the small, leather-bound book he'd hidden there for safe keeping. He flicked through it, showing them the parchment thin pages and the sprawling, florid writing inside. "He went too far with this item. In his own files, the ones he left with us on Monday, her diary is quoted from. It's also added to the notes and references, and is catalogued as being stored in the National History Museum. But if it's in the National History Museum, how could it be in the cellar of Marlinspike Hall?

"So, I phoned the Museum. They were very interested in it, because they didn't have any record of it at all. It wasn't until I explained the situation, and the head curator of the Museum got involved, that I found out that Doctor Paduraru had approached the Museum six months ago, offering them the diary. He claimed it was an ancient book detailing the grisly beginnings of Moulinsart, but they had a small sample of the diary tested and the ink is quite modern. It's a fake. Mary is a fake: Philip didn't have a daughter called 'Mary'. He had four sons and one daughter, who was called Marie. Fair enough: to us it's not that much of a difference, but I doubt she'd get her own name wrong, in her own diary. And she died in 1230-something, almost two hundred years before the events her diary describe. Doctor Paduraru knows very little about history."

"I'll kill him!" the Captain declared. "Has he been driving us nuts, just because he wanted one of his little ghost-thingies to be taken seriously? I'll chin him!"

"Calm down, Captain!" Tintin said quickly. "Look at the time: the fair will have already started by now. We just have to call the police and get him out of here as quickly and as quietly as possible. We don't want to cause any alarm to our young guests, do we?"

"No, I suppose not," the Captain agreed sulkily. "You call the police, and I'll see if I can find him. Thundering typhoons! All I wanted was a nice Halloween, and this is what I get! Huh! If it ain't one thing, it's another!"


	19. 3: The Hunchback of Notre-Lame

_**3: The Hunchback of Notre-Lame**_

"Now calm down, old chap," the Captain said nervously. He did his best to keep completely still, in case Doctor Paduraru saw anything that could be misconstrued as an act of aggression and started shooting.

They had found Doctor Paduraru down in the cellar, holding the gun from the Vampire Killing Kit. The Captain wasn't sure about Tintin's claims that the gun was fake: it looked real enough from where he was standing and its creator seemed to believe it was real too. But at least they were still inside, and nowhere near the Halloween fair and the little kiddies.

"My life's work!" Doctor Paduraru raged. He was pacing up and down, sometimes pointing the gun at them, sometimes pointing it at himself, as though he was trying to work up his courage. The courage for _what_, nobody wanted to speculate. "If that stupid Professor Fort had played ball, none of this would ever have happened! I told him! I _told _him! If we joined together we could become famous! We could have turned the world of history and academia on its head! But no! _Nooooo! _He didn't want that! He was _content _with his crappy little teaching job in his crappy little university!"

"Steady on, pal," the Captain said.

Doctor Paduraru walked towards the Captain, Mr Dudeldop and Mrs Witherball. They quickly sidled out of the way, leaving the stairs back up to the main house free. "All I wanted was a budget!" Doctor Paduraru stormed. "All I needed was money! With a budget, I could have proved my theories long ago! I could have found the evidence! All I needed was for people to sit up and take notice; to realise that there's more in this world than we give credit for! Not everything is logical! Not everything can be wrapped up neatly with a bow! What about African skin-walkers? What about the Mothman? What about actually funding an effort to prove and disprove the paranormal sciences!"

"Police are on their way!"

Tintin's voice wafted down the spiral staircase to them, followed shortly by the sounds of feet on the stone steps. He appeared a few seconds later. "Did you get Doctor Paduraru?"

"Ah-ha!"

"Oh!"

Doctor Paduraru grabbed Tintin by the arm and swung him in front, using him as a shield. He wrapped one arm around the boy's waist and pressed the gun to his head.

"Pfft!" said Tintin. "That's not a real gun!"

"Shut up! Just shut up! You little bastard! You ruined it all!"

Tintin rolled his eyes. "Oh, give it up."

"No! Not until the world takes notice of my work!" Doctor Paduraru started to walk backwards, dragging Tintin with him. "And stop struggling or I'll shoot you!"

"The gun isn't real!"

"Stay back!" The might-not-be-real gun swung towards the Captain, who was slowly edging towards them. "I'm getting out of here! I'm going to show them all!"

"Oh for goodness sake!" Tintin said with a sigh.

"Shut up! Just… Just shut up!" Doctor Paduraru dragged him back up the spiral stairs to the top of the house. Holding Tintin's arm firmly, he peered out of the door to the main house. When he was sure the coast was clear they emerged fully.

"Where are you going?" Tintin asked as the doctor dragged him out the front door. "There's nowhere _to _go: the police will be here in a minute."

"Shut up! I'm going to show them all!" Doctor Paduraru threw his head back and laughed maniacally. "*tssss-huff* Bwahahahaha! All I need is an audience."

"There is no audience," Tintin said. Doctor Paduraru paused at the edge of the lawn before altering directions: he started to head towards the woods.

"This is my swansong," Doctor Paduraru said through gritted teeth. "By hook or by crook, I'll _make _them pay attention."

"Ugh, give it up! There's no point! As it is, all you'll be done for is trespass. It won't even make it to court. Your name will stay out of the papers. If you keep going though, you're getting done for kidnapping and holding someone against their will. Cut your losses and just _leave, _for crying out loud!"

"I'll show you," Doctor Paduraru muttered. "I'll show all of you."

"Christ almighty! Fine! Go ahead. Do whatever you want. It won't make any difference though."

"Shut up! Shut up!"

"There they are!" They were bathed in headlights as the Captain's car pulled up on the dirt track behind them.

"He needs an audience," Tintin called back to the worried faces. "Don't worry about it: he just needs to get this out of his system."

"Hsssss!" Doctor Paduraru pulled away from the lights. He hurried on, still pulling Tintin along. Behind them, the Captain's car crawled to keep up.

"He can't go that way!" the Captain shouted in dismay. "That's the way to the fair!"

They reached the fake graveyard. There were two or three adults here, with a large group of screaming, playing children. Everyone stopped and stared as the strange procession made its way by. Tintin smiled at them. "I hope you're enjoying the fair," he said politely. "We're just experiencing some technical difficulties. Nothing to worry about."

"Is that a gun?" one of the parents asked doubtfully.

"Don't worry, it's not a real one," Tintin assured him.

"Shut up!" Doctor Paduraru howled.

The Captain got out of the car, followed by the paranormal team. The fake graveyard took up all of the hollow now, and there was no way he could get the car through without running something over. "Hang on," he called as he tried to catch up to them. "Get off my robe, you little snot!" A small boy was giggling and standing on the hem of the Captain's costume. He was soon joined by every other child in the area. "Gerroff! Gerroff me!" The Captain flailed as Doctor Paduraru and Tintin disappeared along the darkened track ahead.

**x**

By the time the Captain had made it to the fair, his robes were ripped and a scene of utter confusion met his eyes. The rides had all stopped and the food stalls were empty. Everyone had gathered into a solemn crowd in front of the inflatable Dracula's Castle. They were too busy watching the show, which they were all sure was a part of the celebration: a mini-play put on by the occupants of Marlinspike Hall to amuse and entertain. Well. You have to humour rich people, didn't you? And inevitably they always thought their weird artsy hobbies would go down a storm at events like this. You took the rough with the smooth, and got out with the free buffet.

The inflatable Castle was a big one. The Captain had spared no expense (they had it until next Monday, and were determined to get good use out of it before they had to give it back). The walls of it were made of thick grey rubber that had been made to look like the brickwork of an old castle, and there were two storeys to it. The bottom storey was just a bouncy castle, but the top storey was a ball pit with a slide that brought you back down to the first story. To get to the top, you had to climb a rope ladder that was suspended from the netted window of the second story. Underneath were huge, inflatable crash-mats.

Tintin and Doctor Paduraru were already on the top storey. Doctor Paduraru was still holding Tintin, the gun pressed to the teenager's head. Tintin just looked bemused.

"It's not a real gun!" he was protesting.

"Stay back!" Doctor Paduraru roared. "Cower, brief mortals!"

"You're not a vampire! They don't exist!"

"Stay calm, Tintin!" the Captain called.

"I am calm! It's not a real gun!" came the answer.

"Oh, good, here's the police!" Mrs Witherball tugged at the Captain's robe and pointed. To the Captain's consternation, Thompson and Thomson were hurrying over. _Seriously? _he thought to himself. _Does Moulinsart police station keep those guys on speed dial? I thought they lived in Brussels! How do they get here so quickly every time we call the police? _

"Everyone stay calm!" Thomson shouted.

"To be precise, calm down everyone!"

"I don't think anyone's panicking," Mr Dudeldop said politely.

"Is this part of the show?" someone from the crowd asked.

"_Silence!" _Doctor Paduraru roared. "Or I'll shoot!" He pressed the gun into Tintin's temple.

"Ouch!" said Tintin.

"Shut up or I'll shoot you!"

"I think you've done the most damage you can do with a fake gun…"

"I could bloody well hit you with it!"

"Fair point, I suppose. Do, please, continue."

"I've spent my life," Doctor Paduraru shouted down to the assembled crowd, "trying to catch the intangible! To hold the insubstantial, to _prove _it, was my life's work! But I've been thwarted at every turn. Small-minded, suspicious tricksters have chipped away at my reputation; my livelihood!"

"Maybe if you stopped being a fraud you'd have better luck?" Tintin offered.

"Shut up! _Shut up! _Where was I? Oh, yes. I have fought against it; I have tried to swim against the tide, but to no avail! I am attacked on all sides by people trying to stop my crusade! My budget was cut – _cut! – _in order to discredit me and stop my research!" –

"There's a recession on," Tintin pointed out.

– "Shut up! Well, I shan't take it! I shan't take it any more! Goodbye, cruel world!"

"Don't jump!" the Captain shouted. "For the love of God, man, don't do it!"

"Captain, it's a bouncy castle," Tintin pointed out as Doctor Paduraru let go of him. The man dropped the gun and took a step towards the netted window. He held out his arms dramatically. "If he does jump, the worst he can do is break his arm or his leg, or something."

"I know!" the Captain called back. "But I'm not insured for that!"

"Farewell!" Doctor Paduraru took a deep breath and threw himself forward. His adult body broke the netting on the window and he sort of flopped forlornly out of the bouncy castle. He fell for about a half a second, before landing on the protruding crash mats of the castle. He sank into the thick rubber, almost completely obscured, and burst into tears. On the second story, Tintin picked up the gun and shook his head.

"What a complete waste of time," he said sadly. "These last three days have been a complete waste of time."

"Put that gun down!" the Captain shouted as a couple of members of the crowd kindly helped the sobbing Doctor Paduraru to his feet and off the bouncy castle. "It might be loaded."

"It's! Not! Real!" Tintin shouted. "Captain, _come on! _There's no way this gun is real. Watch!" He put the gun back to his head.

"_No!"_ The Captain, the Thompsons, and the paranormal team all jumped forward, their arms held up in supplication to him. Tintin rolled his eyes.

"Fine." He pointed the gun straight up and pulled the trigger.

**x**

Seen from the air, the woods of Marlinspike Hall were a peaceful place. Then, for one moment, they weren't. A loud gunshot rang out, and the nesting rooks that were waiting to fly south for winter blossomed into the air like a black flower unfurling its petals. After a few minutes of shocked silence, the world went back to normal and the birds returned to their branches.

* * *

**HAPPY HALLOWEEN, EVERYONE! **

The last chapter of the story takes place on the morning of the 1st of November, so you'll get it then. ;) Real time, y'all! Now go out and enjoy your Halloween!


	20. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

___1st of November_

* * *

The Captain shook the morning newspaper out. It made a loud crackling, rustling noise. Tintin sank lower into his seat and tried to hide his grin.

"_Strange Scenes at Marlinspike," _the Captain read. "There's a great picture of the fair. It looks good, I have to say. We did a good job with it."

"Is it going to be a regular event?" Tintin asked, hoping to change the subject before it was even raised.

"It was a lot of trouble," the Captain replied, looking at him from over the top of the newspaper, "and I'm not sure if I fancy doing it all again."

"Well, on the plus side, if you _do _hold it again next year it'll be without any palaver."

"We hope." The Captain quietened down and continued reading. After a few seconds, he started to talk again. "Ah, here's my favourite bit," he said. _"'Convinced that the antique gun was a clever fake, Tintin pulled the trigger without realising it was fully loaded and capable of still firing live ammunition. Luckily, what could have become a tragedy was averted, and the only casualty was a large bouncy castle which, we have been assured, can be repaired quite easily'." _The Captain put the newspaper down and stared at Tintin.

"Don't say it," Tintin pleaded.

"It's a fake," the Captain said, his voice high and squeaky. "Don't worry, Captain, I know it's a fake because I'm a big know-it-all."

Tintin sighed. "Fine, it was a real gun."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And I told you so." The Captain smiled smugly.

"Yes, you told me so."

"_I _told _you." _

"Yes, you did. What does the paper say about Doctor Paduraru?"

"It says I told you so."

"I doubt it." Tintin pulled the newspaper over and opened it to the article about Marlinspike. "If it was going to say that about Doctor Paduraru, it would say that _I _told _you." _He scanned the page quickly. "Huh. It says he was writing a book about the Marlinspike Vampire. This whole thing was going to be a publicity stunt until it went drastically wrong."

"And I told you so."

"You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Probably not." The Captain put his hands behind his head and leaned back, satisfied. "The look on your face was priceless," he said. "When the gun went off, I mean. I could see the cogs moving in your brain, when you realised you'd almost shot yourself in the head. Priceless."

"I'm glad you're so concerned with my safety and wellbeing."

"Well, I did warn you. 'That's a real gun', I said. 'No it isn't', you said."

Tintin shook his head and gave up. It was, he had to admit, an actual Win for the Captain. Times where Tintin was wrong and the Captain was right were few and far between: the man deserved a good gloating.

The door to the breakfast room was opened, and Nestor appeared in the doorway. He coughed delicately to get their attention. "A Professor Fort has arrived," he said.

"Ah, good!" The Captain got up at once. "I'll receive him in the Slightly Blue Room."

"Of course, sir." Nestor gave a slight, formal bow and left the room. The Captain rubbed his hands together and turned to Tintin.

"Time to have a conversation with our friend Fort, no?"

"He had nothing to do with it," Tintin said quickly. "If anything, we treated him badly. We ignored him and concentrated solely on Doctor Paduraru when we should have been offering as much help as possible to the students."

Together they walked to the Slightly Blue Room, which was a pleasant sitting room with a slightly blue feel to it: the antique wallpaper was pale blue, the chairs were all slightly blue and chintzy and even the light fittings were slightly blue too. The room gave the feeling of being inside a rather a large, yet cosy, egg. Professor Fort was sitting on the sofa, carefully listening to Professor Calculus.

"… and naturally that means we could probably pin-point it to within a few feet's accuracy," Cuthbert was saying. He was holding his dowsing pendulum over the coffee table. It spun in a slow, forlorn circle over a cup of cold tea.

"I'd be willing to give it a try," Professor Fort replied. "If, of course, you would feel up to performing the task."

"No, we don't need to wear any masks or indeed any costumes at all: I assure you that dowsing is a simple study that requires no frippery at all."

"Of course, of course."

"No, no horse either. Just the dowsing pendulum."

Professor Fort held his hands up in supplication, to show that he agreed to Cuthbert's offering. "Absolutely. And with luck, it will work out for us better than it did for Poe."

"Do you really think so?" Cuthbert asked, worried. He quickly brought the pendulum over his foot, concentrating it on his toes. He observed it for a few seconds. "No, I don't think so."

"What?" Professor Fort looked confused. Tintin decided that this was probably the best time to interrupt.

"Good morning, Professor Fort," he said politely. He stepped up to the couch and offered his hand to the professor. "I hope you haven't been waiting too long?"

"Not at all, my dear boy, that is to say only a short while, and it's been an intriguing and interesting visit." He gestured to Professor Calculus. "Your esteemed colleague has just given me a demonstration of his dowsing. It was, I must admit, a fascinating exhibition. That is to say, I have enjoyed it immensely, and I hope it will give us incentive to return to Marlinspike in the future and discover the secret of Francois du Sart-Mulan's crypt."

Tintin and the Captain exchanged an alarmed look. "There's another secret?" the Captain demanded. "I don't think we want to know it."

Professor Fort waved his hand dismissively. "The 'secret' is that the crypt we discovered isn't actually a crypt. It may have been, but it was discovered before we got here. The 'bones' aren't real: they're animal bones and a fake human skull bought from a convincing purveyor of Halloween decorations. That is to say, the whole thing was a rig-up. It took us this long to find out for sure, because it was our students in the lab running the tests instead of an actual technician, but they are, conclusively, not the bones of Francois du Sart-Mulan."

"Do you know where he was buried?" Tintin asked. "And who was buried down at the river?"

"From what we can tell, considering other relics found at the riverside site, the person buried there was a Roman. But he was buried in a European manner, so perhaps he was a naturalised Roman who adopted and embraced European custom at the time. He could have been anyone, and I doubt we'll ever know for sure. But according to your own library – and you were right, young man, in thinking that established history would save the day here – Francois du Sart-Mulan was buried somewhere in the forest. He was fond of his horse, so it says, and he rode out to the same place almost every day. He found that place so charming that he asked that his remains be buried there."

"So there's a crypt somewhere in our forestland?" the Captain asked warily.

"Perhaps," Professor Fort replied with a shrug, "but there's no way to know for certain. Besides, the land borders have changed since Francois lived here: your land is only a fraction of the land he owned. Most of what he considered his land has become government conservation land, or privately owned."

"There's nowhere on our land that you can ride for hours through forest," Tintin pointed out. "You can walk our forestland in less than four hours."

"Which leads me to think that he's buried somewhere else," Professor Fort agreed. "Somewhere that may once have belonged to Marlinspike Hall, but now belongs to someone else."

The Captain breathed a sigh of relief. "So there's no more vampires?"

"He wasn't a vampire to begin with!" Tintin cried. "The whole thing was made up by Doctor Paduraru to promote his book and gain extra funding for his research."

"He once approached me, to set up a different scam," Professor Fort said suddenly. "He wanted me to collude with him and invent new history. I'm quite a talent with art. Well, ancient cave art to be specific. There was an unimportant site in Germany. He wanted me to create some clever forgeries that showed ancient astronauts making contact with early ancestors of homo erectus. Quite preposterous," he added. "Homo erectus wasn't technologically advanced enough to 'prove' his point. He would have had better luck faking it somewhere in Africa or South America, where the early tribes genuinely have some baffling wall-art that could lead one to deduce they had contact with ancient astronauts. That is to say, _if_ he could convince the world to believe in aliens from outer space. Eh? Eh? Ha!" He looked around, grinning widely. Tintin hoped his face was carefully blank: he'd had some worrying dreams about aliens. Something about Australia nagged at his mind, but he forced it away.

"Preposterous," he agreed smoothly. "So what happens now, Professor?"

"Well, I think we'll finish up on the site today. We'll leave it the way we found it and concentrate on the small meadow to the west: we found some good Roman artifacts there and I'm sure ground-imaging will show us the outlines of the foundations to a Romanesque building. Perhaps connected with our sad little centurion who's resting place has been so defiled in the quest for sensationalism.

"In the future, who knows? I am certainly intrigued by Professor Calculus's assertions that his dowsing pendulum may help us narrow down the area where Francois du Sart-Mulan's real crypt lies, and perhaps in the future we will get enough funding to start up a new dig site in the area." He shrugged at them. "Such is life, gentlemen, and we archaeologists are at the whim of local and international politics, not to mention familial politics. The amount of times someone has given us permission to dig on land that doesn't belong to them…" He shook his head in sadness. "And in all the bickering it is the past that suffers."

"And the people involved," Tintin pointed out.

"Right, those too." Professor Fort brightened up. "So I read in the papers that Doctor Paduraru is facing jail time or a prolonged a stay in a mental facility? Well, things are looking up indeed. Gentlemen, I will leave you now, and take with me only memories. That is to say, we'll do our best to rebury that crypt and leave the field as we found it."

"Don't bury it again," the Captain said suddenly. "Leave it." He saw Tintin looking at him strangely and shrugged. "What?" he asked defensively. "It's a bit of history, isn't it? Thundering typhoons, leave it where it is and let it be."

"What about the ghost of the tormented Roman centurion?" Tintin teased.

The phrase 'stink-eye' wasn't used very often, but it accurately described the look the Captain gave Tintin at that moment. "Please don't start," he begged.

Tintin held his hands up. "Captain, I'm joking. By all means, leave it how it is. Like you say, it's a bit of history. It's interesting."

Professor Fort put his floppy hat on his head and regarded them all. "Gentlemen, it's been interesting, I'll give you that," he said. "I'm extremely pleased that the whole sorry mess has been sorted out and that you are no longer being put to any inconvenience." He held out his hand to the Captain. "It's been… an experience meeting you, sir. And you, young sir." He tipped his hat to Tintin before turning to the other Professor. "Calculus, you deaf old coot. I'll send those maps of the area over to you as soon as possible. Some of them will be quite old, but I know I can trust you to handle them carefully."

"Sometimes, but only when it's snowing. And I'll have you know that I'm not deaf: I'm just a little hard of hearing," Cuthbert said solemnly.

Professor Fort gave a little laugh. "Remarkable! What a remarkable cast of characters!" He gave his head a little shake before pulling himself together. "Farewell, gentlemen. I hope the next time we meet it is just as thrilling an affair as this one."

"Goodbye, Professor," Tintin said.

"So long," the Captain said suspiciously. He had another feeling that he was being insulted, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it: it was lost among the weighty verbiage.

"I hope the cream works," Cuthbert added kindly.

**x**

That night, things were back to normal. Tintin idled on the couch, fully stretched out with Snowy sleeping beside him, pressed against the side of his chest and stomach. He was watching television. Cuthbert was doodling the schematics of a weapon that could destroy the world but also doubled as a sandwich maker, while the Captain had one eye on the television and the other eye on his book. A fire roared in the large marble fireplace and outside the wind whistled around the eves and the treetops.

Eventually, the Captain tossed his book on to the coffee table and turned to Tintin. "He _was _making fun of us, wasn't he?"

Tintin blinked. "Who?" he asked.

"Professor Fort."

"I don't know. I don't think so. Why? What makes you say that?"

"I don't know." The Captain settled back, unsettled. "It was just the way he said it. _Cast of characters. _Like we're a bunch of odd-balls or something. And I know he said something the other day too…"

"Oh, come on, Captain!" Tintin scoffed. "I think you're reading too much into it. He was a nice man."

"Hmph."

**x**

Ancient yet timeless; he waits. Guarding a camp long gone; he waits. Liberated from his stone tomb; he waits.

Do you really see him, this half-imagined figure standing on the banks of the river? Is it a trick of the dark November light? Is that the shape of a man in the fog? Of a warrior almost-glimpsed through the sleeting rain that falls like sheets from the dark, angry sky?

He is waiting.

He is waiting for a signal that will never come; for a battle long finished and long forgotten even before his earthly remains were disturbed and he was dragged – alarmed and fearful – from the Under World to this one; to a time that no longer knows him.

He is Titus Pullo, a centurion of the _Legio XIII Claudia_ and a soldier of the greatest Empire the world has ever seen, and he is waiting.

**_FNISH?_**


End file.
